Story: Blood Tide, Blood Tithe

From The Times And Events Of Sangray

There was a deep drag of unctuous crimson bloodwater which spread the scent of flayed faerie across the lavish maritime chamber as the Devilray peered through its sanguinoscope.

"The pedals make their war again!" The voice carried to no one in particular, not even to the silent four Rays drifting near the doorway.

Consul Trixitico pushed his wide pectoral fins away from his body making him sail backwards, away from his viewer. In two of the four claspers by the base of his long barbed tail, far longer than any of his subjects, Trixitico held and smeared blood across the eyepiece of the sanguinoscope. In the other two, he held the still dripping mouthpiece of his prized Hemopipe.

Trixitico's chamber was located in the southern nobular tower of the Sangray Fever's fearsome compound, one of seven such towers-- counting the central spire. Trixitico fancied the chamber for its positioning, installing his sanguinoscope to peer for spies and enemies in the Glittering Gulf. And the sights were many.

He took another long drag of the Hemopipe, only letting a slight grumble of displeasure escape his mouth as he detected a slight woody flavor to the blood-- a sign that the chamber was getting empty once again and a sign that Trixitico was thinking.

Peering through his sanguinoscope once more, Trixitico's concious transferred into the waters, allowing him sight beyond sight. He watched the final remnants of the brief-yet-brutal naval encounter. One of the trade routes, he knew. The pedals would be covetous in their retrieval of the plunder-- the colored sails meant they were the daring humans who braved harsh seas and deep waters. Trixitico felt disgust at the respect he held for the barbarous seamen, their tactics were admirable but their greed matched that of the Ixi-T'chal!

Still... there was a ship sinking; and the one thing these pedals did not seem to covet were the bodies. The Consul felt his hunger grow-- and the wood flavor of the blood seemed to only grow more foul on his lips.

"Three current complexes to colder southern seas... mark four... no, call it five full fathoms down. Estimated body count... 20. Possible pedal presence, but plenty of food. Send no less than three extraction groups," the underwater language of the Ixitxachitl was a collection of sonar trills and sharp fin-swishes that made even the mumbling words of Trixitico loud and clear to the four silent Rays in the back of the room.

One of the silent, whose burgundy red facial markings formed a pattern resembling seahorse flesh, whispered, "Your voice carries downward."

That ray left. It had been the first to speak, so it had the distinct pleasure of carrying out the task. Now the remaining three had a far harder task, as the inevitable next command followed.

"The Hemopipe grows stagnant. Fetch me a refill."

A do-able task, certainly, the silent priests would normally jump at the chance to provide for their Consul. However...

"Consul Mixyao has possession of the bloodstock today, my Consul." The priest's words were biting ice on the tropic waters.

Even the constantly-flowing inner current of the Fever seemed to still. Trixitico waited a long moment.

"Ah, right. The bloodstock." It was not a matter Trixitico enjoyed thinking about-- he never had to think about it before. Now Mixyao, his damned counterpart in the north tower, was going to drain the stock dry!

"Tchrixo!" Bubbles swirled around the Consul's body from the intensity of the words making the priest jump, "Remind me. What were the stock numbers at the end of my possession yesterday?"

"13 my Consul."

"Now go to the stock and see just how much my partner has taken for himself! If it is anything less than 10 I order you to drag Mixyao to me!"

Tchrixi the priest knew that she would never be able to do what her Consul ordered. The thought killed her inside. Still, she turned and flowed out the doorway, "Your voice carries Upward, my Consul."

Trixitico trummed a bit in the water. Her acknowledgement was a not-so-subtle way of saying that he asked much.

Another drag, another displeasing taste. The water swirled in a sludgey slurry as he pumped it through his gills.

Trixitico's two viperish fangs sank temptingly into the gum of his lower jaw. Perhaps he would need to hunt soon if troubles with the Bloodstock continued. Of course, they could use the pedal corpses, but that would go against what their idol desired, and would go against their arrangement with the hags. Besides, pedals did not taste nearly as good as pixies.

Now Trixitico's entire room smelled of the wood. Bah! he thought, he had done it again.

"We go." Trixitico groaned as he turned away from his precious sanguinoscope, only lingering to confirm that the warriors had departed.

Trixitico and the remaining two priests took the current out of the Consul's chamber down the winding spire towards the Fever's main assembly area. They passed many other priests, as half the priests resided within Trixitico's tower. The better half, he argued. There were no verbal greetings, beside a soothing pulse of water many of the priests made in honor towards Trixitico. A few went as far as to brush their tail against the Consul's wiping it free of any detritus or debris. Trixitico hardly paid them any mind.

He flowed into the feeding chamber. This chamber being central and most accessible to the entire Fever. The unique design of the chamber cased a strong current to flow from the outside water, so strong that many weak schooling fish could not escape. Trixitico himself hardly took his meals here, but as he arrived he watched as no less than 40 Ixitxachitl chased and speared a school of sardines. It was a relatively light feeding party for the time of day, but it was to be expected.

Looking outside one of the many openings in the wall, Trixitico observed as 50 of his warriors patrolled and hovered around the Fever like a great net. For almost a half-moon the Fever was receiving pedal visitors, many with unsavory intentions. Already a priest had been hurt, the next group killed a priest. Trixitico would not forget these pedals for as long as he lived, even if they never knew who he was.

Trixitico was snapped out of his wandering stupor by a cry of Infernal, the language of the priests. A victory cry reserved for times of war. Trixitico's heart fluttered in elation!

In a burst of aquatic speed, Trixitico shoved his pectoral fins downward and propelled himself dramatically out one of the openings, blasting clear through the current. He may spend his time in the chamber, but Trixitico was chosen by his god and his people-- he would be stronger and faster. To the warriors outside, the arrival of their Consul caused a vibrating thrill of mass elation. To Trixitico, it was a cheer. Yet it was one that was shared.

The priest who let out the cry was orb-swimming around a heavy object, letting the current keep it suspended in the water.

"Consul!! Your scouting is fortuitous! I have stolen the heretic pedal's direction!" the priest Niritto indicated at the object: the entire rudder of a longship. Now Trixitico shared in the cheering.

"You have proven yourself worthy of your share Niritto!" Trixitico switched his own tongue to Infernal, "Tulcattocitlxaxin witnesses you on this day!" At the recognizable word of their god, the warriors began trilling in celebration once more.

"Without their direction, the pedals will be without fins! Damned to drift like the school-less minnow!" Trixitico switched to the language of the Ixi-T'chal.

"Ahhh, you're quick to assume our pedal adversaries are hopeless in our element." The tone and words sent an instant stab of unwanted ennui through Trixitico. Flowing from the front gate of the Fever came the heavily marked co-Consul, Mixyao. Trixitico's tail-barbs flared. Mixyao's priests brought his Hemopipe, and it was full.

Every insightful Ixi-T'chal, and many were, knew the unspoken rivalry and hatred between the two Consuls. This was the way of the Fever, the bitter adversarial nature of their leaders often breeding compromise and debate. These debates were beloved by the Rays, the eloquence and heated nature of the Consul's arguements were one of many reasons they held the spots they did. Blessed by Tulcattocitlxaxin, rhetoric being one of its many gifts.

Mixyao continued, "Pedals can still direct their air-currents, pedals can still sink their dredge-iron. We have hardly disabled them. They shall likely carry on without a second thought." Already at his words warriors looked a mixture of disappointed and eager to inflict further damage.

"Pedals need direction! Even with their air-currents they are on our domain! One may use their tail to steer, but one needs one's fins to push! The same is true vice-versa. Who among us would swim without a tail? This is a great victory!" Trixitico attempted to fan the fires of action he saw beginning in a few of the warriors.

"A pyrrhic victory which will only serve to keep the pedals in our waters," Mixyao did a summersault in the water, the equivalent of a head-shake. He then gripped the hose of the Hemopipe and took a long drag. The blood was fresh and sweet, so potent in flavor and consistency that it refracted the light in a nebulous way as he filtered it out his gills.

Trixitico felt the blood in his own body flow at nearly double speed. He wanted to hurt Mixyao for so brazenly waving his possession of the bloodstock in his face... but he couldn't resist pulling some of the remnants of the blood into his own gills, exciting a chuckle from Mixyao.

Trixitico knew he was on the losing side of this argument, he had to make a play quickly or the warriors would too question the point of the sabotage.

"This pedals are the same as the ones who attacked and hurt the priest Dozodiri!" Trixitico only had a few seconds to let the point linger-- he needed more. From the blood he could quite literally feel shooting through his veins, he generated power. Focusing his mind on the priest at his side, his well-informed memorybank, he psychically extracted the information about the belligerents. In the few seconds, Trixitico compared details, made inferences, and crafted a narrative. True or not, this would be his defense. He knew that Mixyao would begin to do the same.

"They are the same... yet different. The chicken-bird and fish-summoner remain. Demori, we learned, killed their champion of the False-Tide last night," he wavered his fins in a sine wave, a sign of his approval and pleasure, "But the stumpies have all vanished, gone, disappeared!" A shame, the Ixi-T'Chal valued the taste of stumpy creatures almost as much as faerie.

"Your scouts on the Canal saw them last! They were close to the drop-off point, were they not? Did the pixies not stop flowing after this report?" Trixitico nodded frantically, "The pedals! The pedals! They have siphoned and stifled the flow of the bloodstock!"

Mixyao now had a chance to retort, more accurately, Mixyao butted in at this point, "Neither Gertrude," the Common name sounded incredibly foreign on Ixi-T'Chal lips, "nor her family have been at the drop-off for the last six days! But she lives! I have spoken with her, and she ensures me that the bloodstock can flow once more. We only need have patience!"

Trixitico, in his years of debating and competition, was a master at picking up on the subtleties of Ixi-T'Chal conversation. Trixitico had no doubt that Mixyao had spoken with their strange contact. "You spoke to her on our sacred inner words!" Trixitico exclaimed.

Mixyao hissed, causing a flurry of bubbles to erupt into the water as he retorted, "She contacted me!"

The thoughts and elation of the broken-off rudder were gone now as the Consuls began to bicker and argue with one another. Short back-and-forth accusations and arguments began to fly back and forth between the two rays, their tails slashing and flicking the water like two live jumping wires.

"--You know as well as I, Trixitico, we will not forsake the wildercrone's gift!" Mixyao stabbed his tail towards the center spire, where even now a collection of priests kept it satiated and safe.

"Mixyao, you let your short-sightedness blind you towards the dangerous future the wildercrones weave for us! They are not for the Ixi-T'Chal! They are for their own gain, they manipulate!" Trixitico found it harder and harder to make counterarguments.

Whereas Trixitico tried to craft elaborate and beautiful stanzas fit for a warrior-poet, Mixyao had a better talent for speaking bluntly and directly when needed. Trixitico's skills came in handy during the construction and expansion of the Fever, yet now Mixyao was proving just how effective plain language could be. The warriors only saw the benefits of the hag's gift; how the fish almost willingly swam into their capture currents, the strange device that Demori destroyed over their waters, the power, the glory of their god.

None of the warriors, nor even the priests to an extent, could fathom how difficult it was for both Consul's to give up such a large portion of their food. Pedal corpses were all to be given to the gift; the Consuls able to keep only 1 in 10. The one and only time they hadn't followed the rule resulted in no fish coming near the Fever for a Gap and a half. Blood powered every higher process of Ixi-T'Chal life, from Trixitico's Sanguinoscope, to the way the priests prepared their spells, to the food Trixitico and Mixyao needed to survive. The stories of what happens when blood runs out were as infamous in Ixi-T'Chal mythos as they were inevitable and expected.

Of course, the gift hadn't been accepted from any desire to hasten this process. The wildercrone's offer was irresistable: fey blood in copious amounts. Bi-gaply shipments of exactly one dozen pixies-- some of the most delectable creatures known. Though neither Consul knew it, or necessarily wanted to admit it, they had been hooked by the intoxicating draw of that most sumptuous blood.

Trixitico saw a dark implication. The wildercrones were beginning to assert full control of their food source. The past month had seen an explosion of their population. Last reports indicated over 600 fry were viable. If the hags couldn't maintain their end of the bargain, the Consuls would need to turn to other food sources. Their fellows, of course, were the final option. Fish, naturally, were undesireable and common. Pedals, they knew, were dangerous to extract, not when 1 in 10 were the Consul's share. To deny the hag's request would be to deny their people, to allow things to continue would be to deny their instinct. The gift allowed them to feed and mate, they would need it still to maintain.

There was no way his fellow Consul hadn't arrived at the same conclusion; but where Mixyao held a certain trust and direct contact with the wildercrones, Trixitico held only suspicion.

"My esteemed partner. Have more faith in our Fever and our prosperity!" Mixyao sweeped his fins out, drawing in the crowd. "But know this. I have full faith in it." In that moment Trixitico felt a cool presence flow through his body, Mixyao was linking their minds.

"Our portalsource was compromised. Lori returned to the Feywild to create another gateway. I remain. May goes to you. Now we must be extremely careful." Trixitico drew his second eyelids over his corneas, recognizing the mental dialect of the hag. This was the part of the Consul's intricate verbal dance where the work got done, and it got done rapidly-- they understood each other's positions and reservations. "Five days ago, pick-up day." "Where is the wildercrone?" "Not here." "Why." "Demori." "Oh?" "Dead last night." "Good?" "Not sure." "Gertrude?" "Alive." "Pedals?" "Same ones." "Wants to break us." "Yes." "Wants to split us." "Yes." "Gift?" "Must protect." "Food?" "We strike?" "We strike." The exchange took no less than two seconds.

"My Consul has delivered wisdom to us." Trixitico hated that he had to say those words. He turned towards Niritto, the Ray who had severed the pedal's direction. "Priest Niritto, you have delivered the first strike in what will become the story of Sangray! The Story of Sangray!" Trixitico switched to Infernal for the second iteration of the title, preferring how the syllables sounded in the tongue.

"These pedals lead an effort to steal our gifts and prosperity! They are sorely mistaken if they believe they have dominance of the water! They are fools if they believe they can overcome the Ixi-T'Chal!"

A great hissing erupted among the warriors and priests both, the Rays stirring into a frenzy on the Consul's words.

"We witness the surge of Sangray! The Surge of Sangray!" Mixyao used Infernal as well, annoying Trixitico and, in his mind, diminishing the effect he had. He then went back to dragging his Hemopipe, an even more annoying display.

"The young of Sangray are to be the largest generation in Ixi-T'Chal history!" Who knew if that claim were true or not, but Mixyao stirred the spirit through it, "Ours will be a school so large that we shall outsize the tuna, whales will turn and run at the sound of our war cries!" The red markings on Mixyao's body glowed once more, "Our tails will drag their ships to the bottom of the deep, and we will make banquet on the pedals as they scream for their toxic air!"

Warriors around the Fever began to stir and flip throughout the water. With a final flourish, Mixyao declared. "Five, no, eight extraction teams!! There is a pedal ship traveling three to four current complexes to colder southern seas, mark... one fathom deep." The warriors started, that meant the ship had not even sank. Mixyao, in a tone and expression that only the Ixi-T'Chal could witness the sinister pleasure upon, ordered, "Destroy them. Send the message."

"Your words carry downward, Consul." The collective affirmation of the warriors shook the Fever as many began taking off in the directions given. Multiple extraction squads were already blasting off towards the ship at break-fin speeds.

Trixitico bobbed there with eyes wide open. That was the ship he had spotted only minutes prior. Mixyao had extracted the coordinates from his mind during their exchange! There was nothing the Consul could do, he watched the warriors as they disappeared into the blue-hued gloom.

Trixitico did not really take in his surroundings as they went into the Fever from the front gate. The warriors were on their way to the ship, they were going to bore holes in the bottom-- attempt to capsize the vessel. The attack was blatant, inexcusable for pedals. The stories of other Fever's demises ran through his head as he swam to the central tower. Yes, all Fever's ended in a famine, in consumption, in collapse. But the current that loosened the shale in every circumstance was almost always the same-- wars with the pedals.

"You underestimate pedal temper and revenge, Mixyao." Trixitico found the words to speak again. He had his co-Consul had traveled together, their priests still swimming behind them. The central tower was forbidden to all but priests and Consuls, the upper chambers of the tower forbidden to all expect the Consuls and their entourage. Only when they were fully alone did Trixitico find the urge to speak to his partner without the finery.

"I underestimate nothing; you underestimate how much they will continue to harass us regardless." They flowed up another chamber, "We should send the message. The Ixi-T'Chal will not tolerate abuse."

"We are vermin to them." Trixitico summersaulted, "Neither of us could even distinguish between a seaman pedal and a wilder pedal. We attack the seamen pedals, the ones best suited to fight back."

"The smartest ones to eliminate," Mixyao grumbled.

They arrived to the part of the central spire situated just 10 feet underneath the surface of the sea. When they arrived, Mixyao and Trixitico were treated to the sight of 10 priests circled around a cylinder of cyan light, chanting a long series of practiced notes, purrs, and hisses. The light was the source of the constant intricate currents and smaller navigation lights alit throughout the Fever. It went upwards to the surface of the water, split through into the above-sea chamber above their heads, went through that roof, and continued up into the heavens for as far as their eyes could make out. Supposedly the light partially went to their god Tulcattocitlxaxin, partially to a source which the Consuls never truly cared about until now. The light also provided the priests a boost in their own abilities, many of the priests reporting feelings of strength and capability after long chanting sessions.

The priests did not stop nor look up from their chanting because of this. They would continue for roughly five and a half more hours, at which point another group of 10 would take over as night began. The two Consulrays observed the priests for a while before swimming to the surface of the water.

They crested into the one chamber built above the waterline. It had been painstaking to construct this part of the Fever, with it only being done to accommodate the great gift from the wildercrone. On the blood-soaked rugged floor between the condensation-dripping windows in the overly humid sauna-like chamber sat a pallid and hunched figure. It was like a pedal in physiology. Mixyao had once heard Gertrude refer to it as a "shaper of ideas." It was unlike any other pedal, thin and feeble, withered and wrinkled-- at times Trixitico wondered if it were truly 'alive' or if what they were seeing was something more complex.

Its eyes opened slowly, like everything it did, the popping and creaking of its limbs sounding as it adjusted its posture and position to better witness the two Consuls. It was expecting its tributes.

The thing was capable of speech, but sadly numerous language barriers existed between it and the Consuls. The priests would normally interpret, but that wasn't the point of their arrival.

"Trimmpo griv vla-siff rivverra merra?" Its way of speaking was unnerving. Its toothless mouth just opened and the sound came out, like when a shell is held up to the ear.

The Consuls did not respond. The creature, whatever it was, was not a threat, at least not yet. But they knew better than any other in the Fever that the tributes it was offered were never seen again. It ate them... but not in the way the Consul's knew or respected. It was a process neither of the two had figured out yet, one that was irredeemably horrid and repulsive to view, but a process they could not stop witnessing.

Mixyao clicked his tail twice to the ceiling of the lower chamber. A pedal corpse coated in calcium-paste was quickly gathered and brought to the sea-surface from one of the priestly helpers. Wrapping their tails underneath armpits and thighs, the aquatic Ixi's bore the corpse onto the moldering rug of the surface chamber. The creature's nearly fully-lidded eyes could be seen glinting. It looked at the two Consuls, waiting, like it always did, to see if they would leave it alone. They wouldn't. It didn't care.

The Idea Shaper fell forward. The creature's legs were so weak and feeble, even after so many tributes, that it could not walk. Instead, it crawled like a pedal child forward. Slimy mildew on the soaked rug allowed it to slide itself forward, through each pull of its body caused it to let out a wheezing labored exhale. Again Trixitico worried that the creature might just keel over and die before it got to the tribute. But it did.

The Shaper took position over the body, mounting its arms on either side of the corpse. Its mouth opened again... the Consuls both braced. VRRMMMMMMMMMM. An awful tearing sound began to echo around the chamber as flakes of the corpse began to break away from the body. It was a brutal process, witnessing a creature being broken down molecule by molecule, one that revealed the true inner intricacies of pedal anatomy. Blood poured out from the wounds that melted underneath the creature's void-mouth, blood that would have fueled the Consuls for days.

The creature made no expression or emotion as it did this dismantling. Only maintaining the constant sound. If anything, it looked most truly at peace during this process. After an hour, all that remained of the corpse was yet another vaguely pedaloid outline of blood in the rug. The Consuls had watched the entire time.

The creatures next move kept the Consuls up at night. It leaned back while shutting its mouth slowly. There was a pause as it seemed to sadly stare at the place where the body used to be... Then, quick as a flash, the creature did a full backflip to its original place, hunching down, and returning to its statuesque appearance.

Neither Consul really knew why they continued to watch this process. This was the closest the two got to each other during the day. Maybe it was the uncanniness of the creature's feeding style. Maybe it was jealousy at the creature for consuming their preferred sustenance. Maybe this was part of what the creature was. Trixitico never left feeling very satisfied. He left the glowing central chamber without saying goodbye to his partner.

Back in his chambers, Trixitico anxiously spread fresh blood on the sanguinoscope to once again transfer his consciousness into the water and gain sight beyond sight. This time Trixitico wanted to witness events with alacrity and assuredness. He begrudgingly used a small amount of the pixie-blood he kept in a water-tight pot in his chamber.

Trixitico's spirit and conscious was disseminated into the water like the blood from a Hemopipe. His fins were now as wide as the Gulf itself, his eyes were the entire sky and the seabed beneath. Now he just had to enclose his target.

It did not take long to locate the extraction teams. In the flurry of excitement from Mixyao's words traditional squad-sizes and formations more or less went out the window. No less than 85 Ixi-T'chal formed an inky undersea cloud of flapping fins and lashing tails.

Trixitico had to admit, watching the large group surge southward, they mad an inspiring sight. Trixitico had not had time to appreciate that Mixyao had effectively ordered the largest coordinated movement in Sangray history. Now, watching his warriors fly so easily through the sea, Trixitico felt an upwelling twing of... pride? It was a strange thing to have for others, an Fever culture often did not allow pride in the fellow Ray to exist. Trixitico felt it now, it made him want to keep watching.

Trixitico even laughed! He pictured the scream of a pedal underneath the water, their terror upon seeing such a huge group of Sangray! Now they would know the paranoia. The same paranoia he had felt countless times in his life seeing the hull of a ship pass overhead.

The collective push of the Ixi-T'Chal caused a current to begin to flow with them, only boosting their speed as they made contact with their target current. Trixitico could hardly believe it. They began singing songs! Various warsongs to Tulcattocitlxaxin, oh how Trixitico remembered them from his youth! They did not stop, not even when the bottom of the hull came into view. He had to look. Blast... the ship had a rudder.

Trixitico shifted his conscious up. He hardly ever popped his conscious above the water, but with the Rays singing... he had to see the reactions of the seamen.

He found exactly what he wanted. To the pedals, the Corsairs of the Rina Admirer, the songs of the Ixitxachitl were hisses and alien vibrations from underneath the water. The sun was setting now. The song only grew louder and louder. Trixitico felt his heart pump! Was this how it felt to be a pedal against the Sangray?

Trixitico could not see his warriors in the evening sun, the golden surface of the water concealed the force. Still, paranoid, the pedals rushed into action. Two went to the front of the ship, mounting the heavy harpoons they used to spear ships, sharks, and whales. They fired directly into the water, but the sound was all around. A few of the pedals began to panic. They took to the rigging and ladders, climbing upward away from the surface of the sea.

Only now did the surface break, the darkened backs of around ten of the warriors crested, threateningly lashing their tails to intimidate the pedals. It had the desired effect, Trixitico very clearly heard the name "Devilray" come from their lips multiple times. It caused the pedals climbing the already climbing the rigging to pick up the pace. But the harpooners, and now multiple pedals armed in the fire-blasters of their kind, did not relent so easily. The men with guns formed two lines on either side of the ship at the other of the pedal leader.

The thundering sound of their fire-blasters began to add discordance to the Ixi-T'Chal song! Trixitico began to swear and beat his fins watching the conflict, howling in agony as a warrior was split through his backside by one of the damnable bullets, cursing the name of a pedal who ripped a warrior from the water with a harpoon.

Trixitico was fooled. He was so focused on the terror, panic, and actions of the pedals that he did not watch his warriors under the water. Trixitico shook in place, much to the worry of the onlooking priests, as he focused hard on the battle.

Then the ship disappeared!

In a smooth motion, the ship simply dropped under the waves like it had been filled with boulders. Frantic screams of the pedals were, in the course of moments, cut off through gurgles. Trixitico was stunned, he willed his conscious under the waves, and the satisfaction he felt was just as equivalent to a drag of the Hemopipe.

Hundreds of holes were bored into the bottom of the ship's hull as around 50 Ixi-T'Chal did exactly what Mixyao called for, they dragged the ship down to the bottom.

Trixitico laughed, he laughed hard and for a long time. Had he really feared the pedals? Could they really hope to withstand something like this? If they attacked like this, if they could do this regularly their food concerns would be a thing of the past. Perhaps, Trixitico thought, he had erred. Perhaps Mixyao had been exact, and now was the time for the Surge, not the Story.

Perhaps it was the Ixi-T'Chal song ending abruptly that pulled Trixitico's thoughts back to the present. Dozens of pedal corpses were beginning to fill the water. Too many even for the carnage. Trixitico watched in dismay as the pedals mounted a sneaky counter attack. Their vessel was lost, and with it their hope of any escape in the situation. But never once did the pedals fully give up. Even the ones who were climbing the rigging made their last stands. Trixitico was reminded of the physical disadvantages his people were at against pedals, even in the water. Tails were stopped with nothing more than a well-timed fist, daggers sank into the soft flesh of numerous warriors, a pedal priest caused words of power to break the warriors, and restore others.

The magic man wavered a wilderkelp and suddenly a small group of pedals could breath the water. One roared and attacked, striking down no less than eight of his warriors alone. This small group of pedals fought hard for thirty seconds before finally dying from dozens of stab wounds. The water around the sunken ship was filled with the blood of Ixi-T'Chal and pedal alike, but they had won.

Trixitico found himself pulled back to realty as he counted the number of dead warriors, 17. They couldn't risk that every time, not against every ship. But Trixitico had seen much from this fight, he saw where his people erred, he saw how they gathered their loses.

Trixitico continued watching the aftermath of the fight for some time, taking great pleasure in the way the warriors gathered and strung up the new tributes. He was only taken away from this observation by a gentle fin-flap to his side. Tchrixo, the same priest he had sent to keep an eye on the bloodstock's inventory. The brief annoyance he felt was washed away by the realization that the priest must have monitored the stock all day.

"I'm sorry my Consul, I return with my report-- but I was by rights unable to fulfill your full wish." The priest bowed deeply in the current.

Trixitico, having gotten over the temper he had earlier in the day, waved a fin, "I am not dissatisfied. Yet. Tell me the numbers."

Tchrixo, who had truthfully just been avoiding returning to the Consul, quiveringly began, "Well, my Consul, after thorough observation and searching I have determined we have... 6 remaining, my Consul..." the official title-usage was only to soften the blow.

Trixitico summersaulted and spoke in disbelief, shock in his eyes, "Priest you may have just had an eddy in the reef. That number is far unreasonably low."

The priest-ray hadn't miscounted. Tchrixo counted the stock for over an hour to make sure, and spent the next six asking the other priests how she could possibly break the news to the Consul.

"The official bloodstock is 6, my Consul."

Trixitico grasped a mini-coral covered pummice stone and launched it with all his force at the door! The soft stone exploded snapping the corals and sending them drifting to the ceiling.

"THAT IS LESS THAN HALF!" Trixitico roared at a volume he hoped would carry all the way to the north tower.

None of the priests spoke. Trixitico felt immense rage at this. How could they drift minnow-bodied in the face of this terrible news. Why didn't they share his fear?

"GO." The priests instantly turned to leave, but even that wasn't good enough for Trixitico in the moment, "NOW!" They darted.

Half the bloodstock in one day! Had Mixyao gone mad!? Yesterday Trixitico reduced it from 15 to 13! The audacity of Mixyao-- no. Grr. Trixitico began to chide himself. He should have been the one to take the stock, he had already thought of it yesterday, but he didn't do it, he didn't do it because history taught him to covet was to collapse. History told him. History told him. History told him!

Trixitico swam in rapid angry circles around his chamber! Then damn that Mixyao! Damn it all and his plans! Tomorrow he'd take the remaining bloodstock-- the lesser share. The thought made him hurl more of his belongings across the room and scream once more in rage.

Mixyao! Mixyao! MIXYAO!! Trixitico could murder him now, place one of his priests in the Consul spot, restore order. He could set the plans right, revive the blood stock without the help of any damned wildercrone--

The wildercrone.

Trixitico calmed himself. How many times had Mixyao had a similar thought about him? Something must have compelled him to reap the bloodstock. The wildercrone. This was their manipulation at work-- it was putting Sangray under their control.

Trixitico looked into the great mirror of the Sanguinoscope. When not powered by blood the entire device reflected the contents of his chamber. He looked at himself. He was thinner than before, his markings speckled, his fins nicked in a few spots. Dread came over Trixitico.

He had to play into their hand now... he would claim the bloodstock come morning.

Updates from the Outlands. Writing and Creativity.

Hi there, it’s been a bit.

I have been keeping busy. The past year saw me teaching college students the wonders and merits of writing and composition, contributing extensively to my WorldAnvil (which I would love if you checked out), and running plenty of TTRPGs.

But I did not contribute too extensively to this blog— and when a year rolled around without a substantial update, I could not help but feel rather… slackerish… about it. After all, I’m paying for the damn domain, I should use it! Why did this happen? Honestly, it was a combination of depression (which working through and getting better), stress, and divided focus. I’m refocusing now, and I missed writing here. Another big factor was my contributions to my far-more-prolific WorldAnvil. Essentially, I didn’t want to feel like I was copy/pasting from there to here and vice-versa. I don’t know why I felt that way, and going forward you can expect most things written in WorldAnvil to show up here, starting with two smaller short stories.

Let’s talk about write-ups. No, not the disciplinary referrals from your least-favorite elementary school teacher— I’m talking about extra flavor for your TTRPG campaign. The flake to the gelatto, the parmesan to the noodles, the soy sauce to the nigiri, campaign write-ups are my newly-discovered favorite way of adding world-building, characterization, and depth.

The definition of what a write-up is will vary from DM to DM, and that’s okay. My version can be a bit different than how you would do things. As with all things TTRPG, the extra how-and-why of the way you handle things is based on the needs of you, your players, and your world. That being said, let me explain why I started doing this:

The Campaign Write-Up

I was on my third notebook for campaign writing. My former two Moleskins had been filled front-to-back in drawings, sentences, descriptions, etc. (seriously if you don’t use a physical notebook for campaign planning— get one). But even now, on my third notebook, I encountered a problem I was having ever since the first: player agency.

The “problem” of player agency— and don’t worry I know that seems weird— is that if you run a true sandbox game your players may tarnish 10 pages of pre-prepared plans, dungeons, monsters, etc. This is only a problem that exists for the DM— and I’m using the term “problem” loosely here. I define the “problem” here the same way it would be used in a phrase like “problem solving.”

DMs can obviously reorient their parties, the goals, the story. Those monsters that would fill the “Dark Hollow Crypt” can make an appearance in the “Sunken Magistrate’s Tomb” (fill in the words in quotes with your own locations) but I think there’s often something that goes overlooked in these discussions… the plot and machinations of the DM. I feel like (with absolutely no evidence to back it up— this is all anecdotal) there’s an expectation for the DM to let their work get thrown into the fire if that’s the agency they give their players. But there’s something that seems flawed in that— and I think every DM who’s done more than just a tutorial adventure has felt this feeling, especially if they pen their own campaigns. It’s way easier to let a designer’s paragraphs of hard-work go to the wayside, it’s harder to let your own do so.

Storytime.

The PCs had just returned to the metropolis of Dellwind— the biggest city on the continent. This is a place filled with politics, where officials need to walk on eggshells to keep tempetuous deals and contracts secured, where even concepts like warfare and the military have been deferred in favor of profits. The PCs, through over a year of campaigning, have a solid connection with the leader of Dellwind, known as the Lord Steward.

They were to have a meeting with both the Lord Steward about the recent concerns of an enemy nation, Aomia, preparing to invade Dellwind’s sovereign nation, the Assembled Trade States. But not only was the Lord Steward here— but so was every sub-official, the archmage, the overseer of the economy, the leader of a rival group, various mentors, military officials, and faction representatives. Needless to say, there were a lot of people in this meeting. And the DM (me) is ALL of them.

That can get overwhelming. Even if you have a script or prepared lines the fluid nature of conversation and your PC’s agency will, rightfully, shift the way you run encounters like this. And I would classify this meeting as an encounter, a social one. This was a meeting that determined the PCs next story arc, they were given a task by the military and the government! This meeting would shift and shape what that task would be, what they would be required to do and how much they’d get in return. That part (rightfully) was designed to be fluid.

But was wasn’t fluid, and the amazing part of TTRPGs, was when my Ranger PC blurted out his open criticisms at the highest military official in the land. It’s GOOD I wasn’t prepared, Lt. Gen. Malcolm Henry Wight wasn’t prepared. What wasn’t as good was that I skipped over roughly 30% of my lines because I was improving— and that’s really okay— that’s good! What I wasn’t as okay with was that, because I’m not an actor by trade, I really lost a lot of the characterization and, arguably more importantly, I failed to deliver a supplemental detail to the PCs. By the time I realized it, the PCs were out of the room, the meeting, and a were already a few hours forward in-game.

So, I decided I would do a write-up, starting from the moment the PCs closed the door of the Lord Steward’s office. This write up allowed my NPCs to start talking to each other, and in a way that wasn’t awkward because it was me trying (and somewhat failing) to shift between two distinctive voices and personalities over a Discord call. The write-up allowed these characters to emote, to interrupt each other, talk over each other, and show better emotion than, well, what I can show to myself from myself.

Not only that, I was able to let characters who got—- I dunno— half a line of dialogue to be heard. The golden dragonborn Meister in the meeting, which was a strange sight to the players due to the lack of dragonborn in that part of the world, was intriguing to the PCs. But they couldn’t really talk to this guy, they had an important meeting to listen to with, essentially, the president giving them orders. However, in the write-up, I let the dragonborn speak, have a reaction, let his opinion on everything be known. The PCs don’t know it, but the players who read the write-up do. This isn’t a spoiler, in my opinion, or metagaming, it’s a way to give your world life and to let the PCs also feel like real characters in the world. PCs that leave an impact, that can make NPCs laugh, or cry. PCs that may find a way to understand how different NPCs feel.

My players told me, afterwards, that they loved this meeting scene— but the write-up, they said, added even more to it.

Second story.

I’m enamored by the weirder races of D&D— things like Neogi, Thri-Kreen, Ixitxachitl, etc. One feature about Sonnerand is that these races all have pretty significant holdings in various locations of the world. The focus here was on the Ixitxachitl (which is the only of these '‘off-kilter” races they’ve encountered so far) which, for those uninitiated, are lovingly referred to as “Devil Rays” and are awesome sanguine stingrays with a decent intelligence.

Fans of the recent decade of D&D would recognize them from the adventure Out of the Abyss where they have quite a lovely scene between them and the similarly-wonderful Kuo-Toa. In other settings, the Rays are servants of Demogorgen and prolific slavers. But that’s not how they act in Sonnerand.

Remember, in your world, things can behave however you want.

I spent a lot of time thinking about their culture, society, leadership positions, structural considerations, etc. It was really fun, I might post about it here sometime! But one thing that wasn’t shifted was the Ixitxachitl aggressiveness, their sanguine hunger, and their reverence of their holy caste. For these reasons, it would always be hard for the PCs to get close enough to study all of these things I worked hard on. This was only doubly true after the PCs attacked an Ixitxachitl priestess.

This is how a write-up can help your worldbuilding. I created an entire dungeon, stat blocks, treasure, boss fights, and magic devices on the off-chance (and I really hoped there would be a chance) that the PCs would be daring enough to infiltrate their compound. But the carrot-on-a-stick wasn’t big enough, and while they got close my PCs did not go into the Ixitxachitl compound. They never got to meet the vampiric Ixitxachitl Consuls! They never got to try the aquascope that could let them scry the ocean for miles!

But those things are cool. And I worked hard to create them.

A write-up saved me here. I wrote a story, one where I could explore the current problems of this micro-society and give reasons for their aggression and their murderous ways. This story was from the point-of-view of the Ixitxachitl Consul, I got to explore his alien-mind, his paranoia, the distrust of his co-Consul yet their flashes of cooperation too. I loved writing this, it was totally different than what I usually write.

But best of all, it did two things. One, it let me introduce things like that aforementioned aquascope naturally. My biggest pet peeve in worldbuilding is lazy worldbuilding— which I define as worldbuilding where something is explicitily and dryly explained.

Like imagine if in something like Avatar: The Last Airbender the narrator said “And the reason the Fire Nation has more industrial ships is because their firebending allowed them to discover coal and steam power faster.” Snore, boring. Part of the magic of a magical world, for me, is discovering why things work differently. Discovery breeds curiosity, you need curious PCs to have a good campaign (I’ll argue that with anyone). Write-ups can help develop this sense of discovery and mysticism (if that’s a tonal goal, intrigue, mystery, or grittiness can all be pushed).

The second thing the write-up did was, quite simply, helped me be a better storyteller. And obviously this isn’t a night-and-day type shift, but writing is a muscle— or maybe a muscle group. If you want good looking arms, you don’t just do push-ups, you also do pull-ups. You gotta work out the tricep and the bicep. The same is true in TTRPG writing. If you’re only writing the technical campaign rules or purple-prose-laced descriptions, you’re neglecting the other side of writing. You’re missing dialogue, suspense (of course you can do this campaign writing but it lives easily in write-ups), intercharacter relationships, the stuff that helps your world feel less like a series of maps and hubs and more like a world. I’ve noticed that, as I’ve begun writing supplemental campaign write-ups, the quality of my campaign planning and session design has also vastly improved. You’ll find that, as you write scenes in your world, you’ll also begin to feel like it’s bigger— and that you know it, own it, and control it. That’s a great feeling.

Plant Dossier: Mitten Button

“A lot of people are turned off at the idea of wearing mushrooms on your hands. Psah! They’re sustainable fashion! Just don’t touch your face after wearing them.” — Rix Tran, Fey Wanderer

Type: Mushroom

Where to Find: Temperate grasslands, forests, taigas. Comfortable range: -30° - 120° F

Distinguishing Features: Tufts of beige-colored fur protruding from the gills.

---

Foraging Fashion

Popping out of the ground in pairs, mitten buttons are one of the more welcome sights to savvy foragers. These mushrooms grow fast and are relatively harmless to the environment and others. They are nontoxic, but don’t taste great— rather bland. Instead, mitten buttons are best known and cherished for being wearable and insulating.

The caps of these mushrooms balloon out from the ground on no visible stem. Their caps are a reddish black color, making them easy to spot on many forest floors. In only two days they grow to be the size of a human hand.

Mitten buttons are tough to harvest due to how rapidly they mature. The frame of time in which one can harvest a mitten button to utilize it most effectively is short, yet easily identifiable. When these mushrooms begin to sprout with tawny fur beneath their gills, they are at their ‘peak’ and ready to be harvested. After plucking a mitten button (preferably two) the interior of their caps can be easily scooped out, leaving an empty interior chamber filled with the soft fur. If harvested correctly, these mushrooms become mittens that can last all winter before deteriorating.

Spores from the interior of the mitten cap will cling to skin and transmit itself via touch. These spores can linger and remain on surfaces for weeks or even months.

Goblin coalitions and tundrafolk have been harvesting and using mitten buttons for this exact purpose for years. For the former, the goblins of Betiel have grown extremely adapt at fitting and using the mushrooms. The Cracklecliff Coalition is renowned throughout the north for their seasonal full-body mitten cap winter suits.

---

Gameplay Effects

Mitten buttons can be harvested at the right time (when fur is visible) with a DC 10 Nature check. Harvesting a button mitten without the fur visible will lead to the rapid deterioration of the fungus.

Mitten Button Mittens.
(common, wonderous item)

These dark-colored mittens are extremely well insulated and have a comforting softness to them. While wearing these mittens, you do not make Concentration checks with disadvantage in extreme cold weather.

Plant Dossier: Hissing Vines

Type: Tubular vine

Where to Find: Jungles, rainforests, wetlands, temples. Comfortable range: 32° - 120° F

Distinguishing Features: Diamond, striped, or zigzagging patterns of dark green and amber.

---

Harmless Scares

Believed to be a result of dozens of specialized breeding experiments conducted by Yuan-Ti botanists, hissing vines are a semi-invasive species that has come to dominate many of the jungles and rainforests of the world.

Hissing vines are known for their wide varieties of patterns and colors, ranging from deep forest green to brilliant ambers. These vines grow in erratic patterns, often looping themselves twice or thrice around a single branch or coiling near the base of the forest floor. Their appearance combined with their origin and growing mannerisms often betray the vine’s true nature. At a distance, many hissing vines are indistinguishable from snakes.

This mimicry extends to the vine’s namesake trait. The hissing vine is highly sensitive to touch and changes in temperature. When either occur the water stored within is squeezed from the inside and sent to the tip of the vine. The rushing flow of water creates the telltale hissing noise these vines are known for while the sudden shifting of water makes them shake and whip about.

In the wild, these vines are harmless. Hissing vines are actually a phenomenal source of fresh water. Adult hissing vines store up to 15 gallons of water. This poses a bit of a problem for other flora, as the vine may very well soak up all the water after a rainfall before other plants can take it in.

These vines are also famously used to adorn Yuan-Ti temples and cities. In these circumstances, the vines act as a biological security system. Anyone careless enough to touch a hissing vine in a Yuan-TI temple will often trigger a chain reaction where dozens of vines begin to let out a cacophony of watery hisses.

---

Gameplay Effects

Hiss. Whenever a creature moves within 5 ft. of the hissing vine it emits a loud snake-like hiss audible within 100 ft. of it. If any other hissing vines are located within 30 ft. of the vine they also begin to hiss. For each vine that begins to hiss after the first, the audible range increases by 100 ft.

Progeny of Ragnorra: Beckoner

“Beckoners, vile creatures really. Ironically the best way to fight them can lead to the worst possible outcomes. Strength in numbers is advisable. But if too many of your number turn… they will win every time.” — Erryx Volgenshire, Loch Lurker

Uncanny Charmers

Out of all Progeny members, beckoners are by far the most humanoid-like. Most beckoners stand anywhere between 5.5 - 6 ft. tall and seem to outwardly display sexual dimorphism. Beckoners are, in a word, beautiful. They have soft faces with large starry eyes and full lips. A slit that runs down the length of their face facilitates breathing in place of a nose. Their featureless ears are sensitive and can detect even the most minor shifts in pitch and tone. Their bodies are lithe and fit looking with different beckoners displaying characteristics of men, women, or a mixture of both.

Beckoners seem to have a mastery of the Common language to a degree that most other Progeny members struggle to attain. Their inflection and diction to speechcraft is careful, clear, and pleasant on the ears. This is also a beckoner’s most potent weapon. A beckoner’s words are intrinsically infused with positive magic energy allowing it to engage in spellcraft typically reserved for the most skilled of musicians, bards, and orators.

Beckoners are among Ragnorra’s most utilized spawn. In combat, a beckoner is quite a bit more durable than the average person, able to withstand typically lethal attacks for a long amount of time. Part of this durability is due to the fact that a beckoner becomes noticeably harder to hit the closer one is to it.

Their prominence within the Progeny does not mean that beckoners are weak like the frail Idea Shaper. Just one beckoner is potentially enough to wipe out an entire town. Beckoners hate drawn-out physical combat and try to avoid it if at all possible. Instead, they prefer to bolster and build a personal army of charmed humanoids to do the “dirty work” for it. There have been isolated cases of a single beckoner becoming the new lord of a town, charming (or killing) each and every member of the population into adoring it. The longer someone is exposed to a beckoner’s charm, the deeper they fall under its influence.

This charm is entirely one-sided. So great is a beckoner’s charm that the alien can harm their subjects to the point of near-death and the subject will never utter a word of complaint.

Ragnorra’s Mouthpieces

As stated, beckoners have a unique capacity for humanoid speech. Beckoners do not seem to have a personal consciousness, or if they do it is quite diminished. Instead, much of their words and babblings are dedicated to ‘preaching’ fundamental concepts of Ragnorra and praising her “radiant form”.

When pressured into extreme duress, the beckoner can unleash its most powerful ability, a "scream” of raw positive energy. This scream infuses the beckoner’s words and voice with the overwhelming energy of the Plane of Positive Energy alongside the mind-altering sermons of Ragnorra. In doing so, anyone who hears this scream is at extreme risk of becoming charmed by the beckoner. This scream is also extremely detrimental to Negative Energy associated creatures, such as undead.

The more creatures a beckoner brings under its control, the stronger the beckoner becomes. Beckoners are able to heavily influence those charmed by them, destroying their minds with flashes and mental depictions of Ragnorra. One common vision those who have fallen under their spell and escaped reported was the promise of entire legions of beckoners marching across the land and sweeping the world’s population into their charm.

Progeny of Ragnorra: Abductor

“A whole pack of those things swooped us the other day… grabbed four out of our unit before taking off. Bastards are freaky beyond belief. I heard our troops laughing while they were taken.” — Cmd. Teena Bion; ATSQC Army

Aerial Aliens

Abductors are members of the Progeny who make up the majority of Ragnorra’s airborne abominations. Abductors look like a contorted hybrid of a parakeet and dragonfly with avian faces and wings and arthropodal bodies. Their primary function is, as their name would suggest, abducting individuals and delivering them to Ragnorra or other members of the Progeny.

The bones within an abductor’s wings are part of its rib cage. These bones are prehensile and the abductor can forcefully rip the bones from its wings and enclose them around its victims like long skeletal fingers. These bones are light yet extremely durable, often the bones must be snapped to free anyone caught within.

The rib bones lock victims against its soft insectoid underside. There, a specialized gland extends from the abductors neck. This gland has an intradermal needle that injects a sedative into its victim, inducing a state of bliss and acceptance within the creature.

Take, Not Fight

In combat situations, the abductor prefers to avoid drawn-out engagements. If it can avoid it, the abductor will not land during combat, and if it can accomplish it, it will surprise its victims.

Using this ambush-style, an abductor can swoop over a group and abduct someone in a matter of seconds. If the sedative takes hold, there’s a high likelihood that the victim will never be seen again. Even if it doesn’t, few adventurers would risk the fall from hundreds of feet in the air.

This makes fights with abductors fast and frantic engagements. Most experts and veterans of such encounters would warn against getting close enough to the abductor for it to use its ribcage.

Chillingly, communities who fall under the influence of an Idea Shaper for a prolonged amount of time seem to willingly celebrate the coming of the abductors. They see the avians as the angels of Ragnorra, come to deliver them to a new paradise of peace, happiness, and warmth.

Progeny of Ragnorra: Idea Shapers

“The townsfolk’d sooner flay us alive than have us destroy the alien idol.” - Dorothea von Petrica, Exorcist of the Witchblight Syndicate

Heralds of the Mother Comet

Our line-up of cosmic horrors begins small and quaint. The first to break off from Ragnorra and approach a planet, the heralds of her imminent arrival, and the great long-term deceivers of her Progeny: Idea Shapers.

All Progeny come directly from Ragnorra. But Idea Shapers move the fastest and survive the longest within the vacuum of space. Like a caterpillar in a cocoon, Idea Shapers split away as undeveloped potential wrapped and protected under numerous layers of Ragnorra’s flesh. This ‘cocoon’ hurtles through space at speeds of many miles per second, far faster than Ragnorra herself.

The cocoon is largely destroyed in the atmosphere of a targeted planet, and fully destroyed on impact. Rising from a small crater comes the Idea Shaper, an emaciated humanoid with enormous orb-like eyes, a useless sliver of a mouth, and seven distinct openings on its face that facilitate perfectly efficient breathing.

Unlike other members of the Progeny, the Idea Shaper is not suited for combat. In fact, it is extremely frail. Even an untrained commoner could slay an Idea Shaper with little difficulty. The Idea Shaper knows it is weak, and it knows that many would react to it with hostility. So instead, the Idea Shaper slinks off to some darkened secluded forgotten corner, crevice, cave, or crack and simple waits.

Cosmic Influencers

When an Idea Shaper finds a relatively safe location to hide, it will begin its primary function. Using all seven breathing openings, the Idea Shaper enters into a virtually indefinite meditative trance. The Idea Shaper uses almost zero energy while in this state, purges its body of bacteria and germs, and begins to psychically augment reality around itself. It may take months, or years, but slowly the Idea Shaper takes root within a location.

As the Idea Shaper meditates more and more, its influence grows. Yet, the influence of Ragnorra is not immediately negative. Instead, her influence can be quite the boon for certain groups.

Ragnorra’s influence stimulates positive energy within the surrounding environment and heightens life-giving events and processes. For example, the birth rate of twins and triplets nearly octuples under the influence of an Idea Shaper (and thus, Ragnorra). Other processes, such as eating, resting, or recovering are also augmented and enhanced. Crop fields within the Idea Shaper’s sphere of influence provide bountiful harvests, terminal illnesses like cancers or tuberculosis are miraculously cured, and every person feels a sense of peace, tranquility, and happiness.

It is no wonder that some groups who discover an Idea Shaper choose to keep it a secret. Indeed, destroying one of these aliens eliminates all the good they do (and may even create a negative-energy backlash). However, that is where the danger of an Idea Shaper lies.

When a populous becomes complacent with the Idea Shaper’s influence and allow it to continue, the pull of Ragnorra grows. Each and every Idea Shaper that is within deep meditation acts like a magnet. When dozens, hundreds, or thousands of them are allowed to spread their influence, it effectively locks Ragnorra onto the planet… all but guaranteeing her arrival.

Progeny Boosters

Idea Shapers have a secondary purpose, one that only shows itself once others of its kind have arrived. The influence of an Idea Shaper is felt 100x more powerfully to another Progeny member. This means that Idea Shapers can will wounds into healing, grant allies super speed or strength, or worst of all, induce a whimsically violent attack flurry.

Areas where Idea Shapers have taken root in make ideal landing zones for the other members of the Progeny. The lair it calls its meditation chamber become some of the deadliest places to engage with the Progeny, as the Idea Shaper will pulse with pure positive energy to keep itself and allies healthy and fighting.

Though the Idea Shaper may be weak, and its immediate effects beneficial. It is to be destroyed the moment one is discovered.

Progeny of Ragnorra: An Overview

We’re kicking into the realm of cosmic horror and Far Realm influences this week! With Spelljammer only three months away, now’s the best time to begin planning extraterrestrial (or extraplanar) baddies and adventures.

I for one was being elated by the announce of Spelljammer, science-fantasy is the king of fiction (for my games). One hope I have for the expansion is more Far Realm influences! We have gotten plenty of action from Hadar, that hungry-hungry star whose got tentacles for days, beholders (obviously), and mind-flayers. However, there are so many cosmic horrors to be explored.

I was thinking of a ways to start bringing these in. If you didn’t know, the newly-owned WotC company DNDBeyond released a huge FREE compendium of space-themed monsters for space cadets to sink their teeth into. There’s lots of great things in there! Adding onto this, and with Spelljammer in mind, this week is going to be all about bolstering the Star Spawn monster type and adding a unique twist: Ragnorra.

The Mother of Monsters

Ragnorra, from the Elder Evils dating all the way back to 4e, is a wonderfully unique monster in the D&D mythos. She is a 200 MILE long… mass of flesh and good vibes. Ya, good vibes! She’s originally from the Positive Energy Plane and flies about space as a living flesh-comet.

Sometimes, Ragnorra decides that a world just isn’t positive enough, or positive for all the wrong reasons, and smashes into the planet before trying to fuse with it. Awesome.

From the old tomes (written in the ancient year 2007), it is said that Ragnorra pretty consistently has bits of her own body flying off and taking certain forms. These are the Progeny of Ragnorra (see the title) and this is where the fun part begins for me.

Beings of positive energy, descending from space to cleanse the world and eliminate negativity and sin. Their forms beautiful and inspiring, their intentions… noble and just— but at the expense of an entire planet’s way of living. The concept oozes opportunity and invites all sorts of creativity.

So that’s exactly what I’m setting out to do this next week(s). Expand Ragnorra’s ranks and create a subfaction of the Star Spawn, the Progeny of Ragnorra. So look out for brand new spells, monsters, and maybe even a plant or two (of course) in the name of the mother of monsters.

Progeny of Ragnorra

‘The spawn of the matron comet are a varied and highly specialized collection of beautiful horrors. On the outside, they are ideal, gorgeous, and even beneficial. But on the inside, each and every one is a descendent of Ragnorra’s unwavering cancerous physical and mental indoctrination.’ — Captain’s Log 4350348, Cpt. Clove Hurhok

Hundreds of different Progeny are thought to exist and enough physical differences are present in even related species. There is a compelling argument to be made that each offshoot of Ragnorra is unique and individualistic, tailored to an exact purpose at an exact time. But this, as mentioned, is an argument only.

Progeny adopt characteristics of humanoids, animals, and even certain inanimate objects. One commonly witnessed type of extraterrestrial, the Star Spawn Grue, manifests from Ragnorra as cherubically-faced graceful beautiful humanoids that look quite similar to a normal human. With melodic voices and dancer-like movements, they careen across distances rapidly and subdue targets with remorseless laughter and self-assured strikes. Often, a victim does not even know they are about to be attacked.

As Ragnorra draws closer and closer to a target planet, the horrors and oddities that manifest grow greater in size, number, and purpose. Next time, we’ll take a look at one of the heralds of Ragnorra: the Idea Shaper. We’ll learn how this creature falls from orbit, plants itself within society, and lulls those under its influence into a false sense of prosperity and tranquility.

Monster: Desire Trail

Highway to Hell

“The Archbishop said it was only a few miles away right? How come we’ve been walking for hours…” - Last report from an Aomian Strike Force

Whereas mimics have long been reported shapeshifting into common household objects like cupboards, shelves, chests, etc. they are hardly the only shapeshifting semi-inanimate being in the world.

Desire Trails pair the deception of their mimic cousins with a keen sense of tactics and teamwork. They are nearly impossible to spot in the wild, and are staggeringly gigantic monsters. The largest Desire Trails ever fought have measured many miles long. Yet, this incredible size is also the trail’s greatest weakness.

Unlike mimics, desire trails do not possess a mouth or limbs with which they can attack prey. Instead, they slowly dissolve and digest unmoving organic matter into their skin, a process that takes almost 24 hours. Their size and slow metabolisms make them sluggish and clumsy.

A Desire Trail in motion looks like an enormous flatworm slithering across the ground, using tens of thousands of millimeter-long nodules to slink around. They are also effectively blind, only containing two small eyes near the front of their bodies. The trails make up for this by having a remarkable tactile sense.

Despite the worm-like appearance, Desire Trails are officially classified as a type of construct— but this definition is often debated. Desire Trails are not intelligent creatures, but have sharp instincts and quickly develop mutualistic bonds with anything that can secure it a meal. Brigands and highwaymen will keep Desire Trails as “pets” in the hopes of the trail delivering easy targets to them.

Combat Strategy

The Desire Trail is weak, frail, and slow. It is a horrible combatant on its own and relies on allies to secure any type of kill. That said, the desire trail is capable of augmenting the texture of its body, making potholes, lumps, or knots that trip those walking upon it. The Desire Trail is also capable of changing the color and consistency of its body, allowing it to look like dirt, cobblestone, pavement, etc.

By far the most threatening aspect of a Desire Trail is their mind-altering magic field. The trail emits a barely-detectable psychic drone that works in two ways:

1. Anyone walking on a Desire Trail garners a confidence that they are heading towards their destination, even if minor discrepancies suggest otherwise.

2. The Desire Trail can psychically locate any creature it considers to be an ally.

Typically, a Desire Trail will feel something walk onto its backside. Miles away, at the front of the Desire Trail, it will make slow adjustments to its trajectory, leading prey towards its allies. Once its prey is close, it will begin tripping them to secure an easy kill for its allies.

Luckily, if someone finds themselves aware that they are on a Desire Trail, killing the creature is quite trivial. Attacking the thin body will dispatch the monster in short order. Monster biologists fear what could happen if Desire Trails evolve or adapt to be more proactive in hunting.

Like this monster? Consider seeing it and more on my World Anvil page!

Plant Dossier: Void Peas

“One time a kobold ran up to me with one of these little pods and stole my keys! He jammed it into the pod as he ran away— I caught up with him mind you— but the little bastard was giggling like a maniac. Welp, long story short, the punk made my keys vanish from reality... forever. And the closest locksmith was over 300 miles away!” — Treznor Callion

Type: Extraplanar Pod Fruit

Where to Find: Hills, plateaus, mesas. Comfortable range: 49° - 105° F

Distinguishing Features: Thick emerald green pods 2 inches in length.

---

Out of Sight, Gone Forever

They grow in simple patches of 3-4 plants, yet the plain looking void pea plant is anything but normal. These strange vegetables are just like most other varieties of pod fruits. They grow just like other plants, develop pods like other plants, and are delicious when harvested. Yet, the troubling differences begin to occur at the very end of the plant’s life.

Void peas, as their name may suggest, have a unique disappearing act they can perform. Void pea pods decay at an exceptionally slow rate. In nature, these plants often have small mounds of discarded pods piled around the base of the plant. These verdant pods feel rubbery to the touch, and are wonderfully flexible. When a pod is pinched shut, the pod reseals itself as if the peas had never been harvested at all.

Druids and scientists pondered the reason for this adaptation for years. The pods provide very little nutritional value, nor add anything back to the soil. Instead, the pods true power was revealed through an accident. One day, Dr. Kanney Triff hypothesized that the pods resealed in case the pod was prematurely opened before the peas were fully developed. To test this, she gathered premature peas and attempted to place them into a pod to see if they would continue growing.

They didn’t. Instead, when Dr. Triff checked on the pods, she discovered that there were no trace of the peas. After a few more experiments she concluded that this happened with each pod, and that the pod wasn’t simply reclaiming the nutrients from the peas— the peas just vanished.

Dr. Triff, on a whim, placed other objects within the pods. A thimble, a strawberry, ants, different types of peas, it did not seem to matter. Each and every object vanished without explanation. This realization is what led Dr. Triff to give the plant its common name.

As time passed, more research was done on the void peas. However, no one has ever been able to find out where the peas go and why the pods perform this strange act. Yet, there are no shortage of fanciful theories.

Void peas came under extreme scrutiny after they were a key item in a political assassination. During the assassination, the target, a prominent government official, was slipped a potion of diminution in her drink. Once she had shrunken down to only a few inches in height, she was placed within a void pea pod. She was never seen nor heard from again. This one event has spurred many cities and nations around the world to collectively ban the sale, harvesting, and distribution of void peas.

---

Gameplay Effects

Void peas are extremely easy to harvest and collect. Requiring no check to gather numerous pods. A typical plant has 1d12 pods clustered around it.

Void Pea Pod. This pod has enough room to fit any object or creature that’s less than 3 inches tall inside. If something is placed within the pod it vanishes from existence in 1d4 minutes. Anything placed in the pod is lost forever and can only be reclaimed through the use of a wish spell.