Inspiring Illustrations - Fantasy - 27) UnderOerth map location C-19 - South-West Tunnel

27) Underoerth map location C-19 - South-West Tunnel

Heading west the tunnel branches into three before entering this location.  

The south-west tunnel is of double the normal width and heads downward. Signs of recent travel as well as maintenance are visible.

A dwarf might recognize the work of supporting columns as well as the drainage and ventilation shafts being of dwarvish work. A successful search for secret doors 10 yards down the south-west passage will reveal a locked hidden doorway. The lock is also of fine workmanship and is at -10% to pick for non-dwarves.  The room inside is 20feet from the door to the back wall and 40feet long following the south-west tunnel. The wall separating the room from the tunnel is an even foot-and-a-half thick.

Inside the room, whose ceiling is only 6feet, are a half-a-dozen bunks of dwarven size showing recent occupation. Chests at the foot of each bunk contain only blankets for the bunks, but each has a false bottom. Inside each hidden compartment are 1d6 healing potions, a week's worth of iron rations, a one gallon water canteen, a +2 dagger that is of dwarven workmanship but like drowic weaponry will disenchant and crumble if exposed to sunlight or taken to the upper world for more than a month.

A cloak and weapon rack is against one wall, but everything is sized for dwarves. Two of the half dozen picks in the weapon rack are enchanted and allow the wielder to tunnel through 20feet of rock as if it were stone once a day if the rune of activation, engraved on pock-head, is touched and the activation word, "spelunker", and "gravy" is spoken in the dialect of 'Deep Dwarven'.  There are also various shovels, hammer, chisels, coils of rope and masonry tools contained in the rack. There are 3 cloaks, dwarven sized, that give +2 armor class if the wearer is beneath the earth and near stone.  

The door can be secured on the inside with an iron crossbar and there are two hidden holes at dwarven eye-level for looking out into the passage.

Inspiring Illustrations - Fantasy - #26 - The Guardsmen of Ptolemides

26) The Guardsmen of Ptolemides

The lost and ancient city of Ptolemides sits on the coast of an ocean that has no name beneath strange stars which sing eerily in the darkness for those who have the fate to hear them. Long ago, it is said, the Hellenic fleet that came upon this land, discovered a vast ruined city on whose foundation they built temples and homes, but others say that Ptolemides has always been as it is now, taken complete to the last stone from their homeland, but all agree that the shifting skies and mist shrouded land, the cold waters of the ocean, are not and will never be 'home'.

Those who guard the gates and walls of the city, those who walk the streets or stand against the peoples and creatures which approach the environs of Ptolemides bear the arms and armor of the Hellenes from long ago, but over the years, how many is not known as time flows strangely in the land around Ptolemides, they have become a mixed group of Hellene and wanderer, conquered or barbarian outsiders.

The traditional arms of Ptolemides guardians is a full helm with cheek and noseguard; a breastplate of steel and shield of embossed wood and leather with a bronze edge. An armored skirt is worn and greaves that protect from ankle to knee. The ancient short-spear suitable for thrusting or throwing and a short-sword are the normal armaments for a Ptolemides guardsman. Some short-bows are still in use but the crossbow was introduced to the city in past years and the guardsmen took to its use immediately, both light and heavy cross bows are used,.

The basic patrol group is a 'Hand' of five guardsmen. One experienced guard in charge with one veteran and a mix of three green recruits or city reserves. The green recruits gain experience in the city and once they become veterans join the patrols that march or ride outside the walls if needed. Reserve guardsmen serve for several weeks a year as their work permits but a good excuse is needed if they don't answer a summons to duty.

Green recruits are chosen at the age of 16 (men and women) and may serve as guardsmen all their useful lives. Those who are trained as reserves also begin their training and selection at age 16 but are generally not called upon past the age 40. Both male and female Hellenes serve in the guard and are trained as reserves.

A Noise That Seemed Afraid Of Silence

A Noise That Seemed Afraid Of Silence

Beyond the coasts of Sange is an island in the Sea of Twilight. The sea itself is a place of beauty and terror, but the island, which has no name, is a place of ending. When the people of Sange weary of all things they seek this island for there is no true ending in Sange only life followed by life.

The Sea of Twilight can only be sailed by Death and finding the dead in Sange is a hard thing. To kill a man or a woman, an animal or thing that is not quite any or none is possible but death lasts only an instant and the spirit of those of Sange flys free like a gleam of silver moonlight before it is gone to find life again.

The spirit of the dead must be caught in a cage of mirrors baited with a dream; A dream of power of love, anger, tears, betrayal, revenge or remorse. The cage is capped with the frozen eye of a mage and the breath of despair. Then the body of the dead will be at the command of the holder of the cage and the journey to the island can begin.

There is a fear that has come to Sange. Dreams have become nightmares and the land, though always hard and often cruel, has lost the wonder, pleasure and enchantment that made unending life a joy instead of a wearisome burden or horrific punishment. The soothsayers, the oracles and the prophets speak of the island on the Sea of Twilight and say that only there can the answer to this curse be found.

Someone or some group of someones must make this journey, find Death to sail the ship, cross the Sea of Twilight and walk upon the island from which no one has returned. Great dreamers are called to this quest from all of Sange, dreamers brave and strong, of the mind and arm, heart and spirit before the darkness which has settled upon the land has ended every song, silenced every voice, broken the spirits of those who have lived a thousand lives and made Sange into a prison of nightmare and torment.

Hyperborea - Darkness be The Burier of the Dead

37). Darkness be The Burier of the Dead

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

"Must we start our fight

Groaning over corpses?

Come what may

Let us enter the ford

To meet death before the hosts

With bloody spear-blade

Or the savage sword

If our time has come."

Cuchulainn - from "The Tain"

With the destruction of Galla chaos spread among the Galla Hills and among all the Keltic people as the struggle for who would become Over-King now that Srubdaire the ruler of Galla was dead. Four men contend to sit beneath the blessed tree where the ruler would be enthroned and crowned with leaves of oak. Scathach and Uathach and Aif and the man called Son of Daman.

Many times in the past had the division between Kelt and Kelt brought misery to the people and enemies down upon the Keltic lands as they fought between each other. The holy druids had united from clan to clan, tribe to tribe and the law of oak and stone prevailed over the foolishness of chiefs and kings.

The fight for the Crown of Leaves, as the title of Over-King is called among the Kelts, is now formalized and the combatants meet with only a small company of bodyguards and followers to engage in combat at sacred fords where the waters will wash away the blood spilled by Kelt fighting Kelt. Pugnacious and always ready for a fight every village headman and chieftain of a minor tribe set forth to do battle much to the dismay of the druids and wise men among the clans.

It was on Bealltainn night that the witch-fire was firsts seen. The Druids had set the holy fire at Ur-Uisneach, the blessed hill, and as the fire was lit an unholy blaze was seen far up the slopes of the mountains to the east. A chill wind was felt and a howl like the cry of lost souls was heard. An inauspicious omen, but one that proved itself too readily while the Keltic lands reeled and their leaders struggled for power.

Like a swarm of beasts the Picts fell upon the eastern valleys. What power, what cursed magic they had used, none can say, but from the far north-west of Hyperborea they have come to raid and plunder the Keltic people. The Son of Daman has set aside his quest for the Crown of Leaves and struggles alone with only his own followers against the Picts. His horsemen have left a bloody furrow across their advancing line of raiders but he alone cannot stop them.

Here is a quest for heroes to stand perhaps beside the Son of Daman or, at the urging of the Druids, find the source of the Witch-Fire among the eastern mountains and cut off the tide of Picts who now press against the disunited defenders of Galla.

Inspiring Illustrations - The Minions of the Moon

35). The Minions of the Moon

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

(Note: In My AS&SH campaign I have only the single moon which we all know and love, rather than the two moons Selene and Phobos, at least so far...)

North of the Hellenic City-State of Ptolemides, beyond the forest of the Crowned Beast (but known to most as the Foxwoman's Domain), lies a pool of liquid silver metal that is death to touch. Around this pool can be found white-clad devotees of a new cult that has followers in both Khromarium and Ptolemides and seems to be spreading like fire among dry leaves to every city and large town in all of disparate Hyperborea. These are "The Minions of the Moon" and they worship both the Moon as a divinity and the silver pool as the Moon's avatar upon the earth.

It is rumored that at both the waxing and waning of the moon human sacrifices are performed which the cultists call 'The Silver Death' and the victims are submerged in the liquid metal pool. The bodies are said to be held by chains and drawn back from their fatal bath now withered and hardened like iron. Their spirits are then purposed to walk the environs of the people serving the will of this new lunar divinity. The reality is much more deadly.

These sacrifices have become servants of the silver metal pool, which is a living entity fallen to earth millennia ago. It is an animal creature without need of sustenance and without language. It can rise into a wave and move, sometimes at great speed, but will always return to the basin where it now resides connected by a cord of liquid metal to a crystal-like object buried deep within the earth below. These servants act as automaton akin to those of Iron but with several differences (See New Monster).

The truth behind the cult is the discovery of the crystal by a notorious thief from Rusland, Mikhaliov Fydrovich, who , fleeing from a monstrous guardian of a Ptolemides merchant's treasure, came across the pool of liquid metal and the fragment of crystal which lay almost within the pool itself. The body of a dying manticore had come in contact with the pool and with the crystal Mikhaliov was able to summon it to his defense and defeat the guardian Daemon which pursued him. Much to his disappointment the silvered form of the manticore fell to dust within a few weeks time.

Mikhaliov was not one to let a good thing go and his quick mind immediately formed the idea of the cult and "The Minions of the Moon". Originally all the members were thieves or the like, but the cult has taken on a life of its own and only the original core (and some select recruits) now know that the cult is false.

Worshippers of Lunaqqua are the dire enemies of the cult and minor war of assassination and retribution is being waged between the two.

New Monster

Automaton, Silver Metal [MON]

No. Encountered: 1-6

Alignment: Neutral

Size: Varied, most common size is M

Movement: 40

Dexterity: 16

Armor Class: 5

Hit Dice: 4+2

No. Attacks: varied most commonly 2 (Pummel) (see Notes)

Damage: 2d6/2d6

Saving Throw: 14

Morale: NA

Experience Points: 750

Silver Metal Automatons are formerly living creatures (most notably human but to a much lesser extent any creature existing in Hyperborea  and even some that do not) whose flesh and bone has been consumed and replaced by the creature that is the pool of liquid metal. They have only an animal intelligence regardless of their former intelligence as a living creature and a life span of under two months. At the fullness of the moon above Hyperborea they must return to the liquid metal pool where they merge with the creature or harden into a solid piece of dull grey metal and fragment into a powder that will eventually sift away to nothingness.

These Automatons can be controlled by a fragment of crystal that is now set within a small medallion (and worn by the Master of the Minions of the Moon. They will obey basic commands when within a 60foot radius but otherwise act as an extension of the pool of liquid metal with a completely alien set of reactions and desires. (They my stand still and let themselves be hacked to bits, walk into a fire, off a cliff, attack wildly, etc... )

NOTE: Silver Metal Automatons that are formed from monstrous creatures retain and physical type of attacks including number and damage of attacks of the formerly living creature with a +2 damage per attack. All other stats remain as per the basic listing (AC, Dex, Etc.. ) for any form the Silver Metal Automaton may take regardless of previous HD or abilities.

NOTE: These Automatons are not constructs and are much quicker, moving with a high grace and dexterity, than magically created Automatons. Part of their AC comes from a bonus for high dexterity.

NOTE: Sacrifices to the pool of liquid metal can only be done at the waning and waxing of the moon. At other times anything entering the pool is simply absorbed into the liquid metal. Even at these time there is a 75% chance that anyone or thing of flesh placed into the pool will simply be absorbed.

NOTE: These Automaton's can regain full HP by resubmerging themselves within the pool, but will also regenerate 50% of their total HP every night when the moon rises (up to their original HP total). If reduced to 0 HP they turn into a grey metal and fall to dust.

Inspiring Illustrations - The Alchemist

34). The Alchemist

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

In all of Khromarium there is perhaps no single individual better known and yet still an enigma than the man known only as 'The Alchemist'. That he is a mage of great power is undisputed, but his origins remain unknown as does his name.

Years ago a strange ship sailed into the docks of Khromarium; a ship without sails, without crew, and with only a single occupant. It was a small ship but the man who emerged from its hold seemed too old to have crewed even such a vessel no bigger than the long boat off a galley. When he turned and lifted the ship in his hands and then proceeded to fold and refold the vessel till it was smaller than his hand, smaller than his fingers, so small that those watching had to look away as what they watched became more than wondrous; it became disturbing to the senses of what should be and what should not.

This was the arrival of the Alchemist. Not a display of raw power, but power was there, subtle and practical. He appeared as an old man of white beard and hair, not tall, perhaps shorter than average, not fat, nor thin, nor so old to appear feeble. As he turned to walk along the quay a staff of smooth white wood appeared in his hand as if a branch, straight and unblemished, grew from a dark core of nothingness.

The Alchemist settled near the Street of Trade where it crossed the Quarter of Craft before emptying into the Sea Market where the goods fresh from the holds of ships were sold and the pens of exotic animals and slaves were kept. He found an old building that had suffered in the Cold Riots many years before, partially ruined with a roof holed by fire and walls stained with smoke. A small crowd of layabouts, longshoremen, traders and sailors had followed at a respectful distance from the docks where he had arrived and watched as he step lightly across the overgrown yard littered with debris and enclosed by a short iron fence. The doors of the building had been nailed shut but they parted at the touch of the Alchemist's hand and closed silently behind him.

A flash of light burst from the windows and the holed roof, out the top of the broken chimney. The light suffused the walls, swept across the yard, caressed the iron fence, the broken gate. When the light faded the iron gate was black, the yard bare except for a carpet of wildflowers and herbs, the walls of the building a rich brown, the windows glassed and shuttered, the roof whole and the doors more solid and dark bound with what might be silver and etched with runes that none could read, and open as if waiting visitors.

The Alchemist stepped from his new abode and shut his door behind him, locking it with a small silver key and turned toward the nearby market. He shopped, and talked of small things, and laughed. He hired servants to watch his door and tend his garden and cook his meals. The Alchemist seems never short of gold and what he cannot find for sale he hires adventurers to find for him, and within his brown-walled home he sells potions and pills, salves and solutions which will dissolve steel but not harm flesh.

The Alchemist is liked, respected and somewhat feared by his neighbors on the Street of Trade, but he is well-regarded and a source of pride for proud Khromarium.

Inspiring Illustrations - Outside the Khromarium Gate

32). Outside the Khromarium Gate

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

Kromarium is vast and older than man. Streets and towers and catacombs that wind their way into the bowels of the earth like a wyrm gnawing at the heartstone of the city. So vast is Khromarium that losing oneself in its twisting paths can become being lost in passages of time and space and dimensions not hospitable to man. It is said that the center of the city can never be found, always there will be another tower, ruined manor, gaping pit where the dank sewer waters gush down and down and down, another street or alley to follow deeper and deeper along ways that should not be trodden if there is any wish to return.

But Khromarium is a city filled with life as well and the precincts that surround the walls and its many gates are lit with fires both mundane and magical. Cleanly swept are the corridors of the wealthy and powerful or littered and stinking with the refuse of the outcast poor and discarded souls. Merchant squares abound, strange passengers from stranger lands view wares from coach or palanquin. Street musicians play and thieves ply their trade. Courtesans demurely pass brothels where their less fortunate and less expensive fellow professionals bare their own bare and berouged wares from doors and balconys.

Outside the gates of Khromarium can be found philosophers, beggars and scribes. Soothsayers, hedge-wizards, and shamans can be found in abundance, but any with more earthly goods are shooed away and into the well-taxed environs of the city walls by the passing guardsman and mounted patrols of the city. The business of the mind, the soul, and the mystical is conducted along these thoroughfares by any but the well-established masters of these professions, beggars and mendicants excluded.

Tellers of fortunes, popular among the Kimmerians and people of Rus, have small tents inside the city gates, while a more well-regarded practicer of divination can be found sitting upon a waxed or oiled cloth on the verge of the great road close to the iron and wood portals of the city. There is a hierarchy and tradition among the traders in the ephemeral outside of the gates and woe-betide any who would usurp another's spot of buttocks smoothed grass that may have been occupied for generations or passed down from journeyman to apprentice from time immemorial. 

Inspiring Illustrations - The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads

31). The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

Deep within the forests of the Coast of Scars can be found the ruins of a small stone tower. Its foundation stones are very old and show the marks of fire and of war. How many times the tower has been tumbled and rebuilt none can say, but a few stories of its latest incarnation remain though the upper most levels are cracked and roofless.

Of late a man has come to dwell within this ruin. He is thin and austere, robed as a priest or a sage or crafter of spells. His name is not known, though some call him 'The Mage' or the more lengthy 'The Summoner of Small Daemons'. And that last name is very apt.

All about this man run the smallest of Daemons, run, dance, fly and cavort about him as if around their heart's desire. Should any approach this man with malice in their hearts these Daemons turn from merriment to a vicious defense. Even the greatest of the Devil-swine which haunt the woods give him and his horde a wide berth for those that have not have met their fates buried beneath a thousand small teeth and claws and a thousand more waiting for their chance to blood themselves on their larger kin.

'The Mage' seems pleasant enough, but his flock of small Daemons deters visitors of a more wholesome sort. With each passing day it seems a few more of these tiny Daemonic forms join the throng which surrounds the old tower though some are always flying or scuttling afar to do their adoration's bidding. And as time passes the fewer Devil-swine there are to be found in the woods, though the nearby City-State of Dorset, long overrun with these foul piggish Daemons and their progeny, seems to be swelling in compensation.

How long it will be before 'The Mage' turns his attention to this Daemonic concentration, if that is his ultimate goal, none can tell, but it has been long years since the Coast of Scars has been as clear and safe from the swine-men or their Daemonic masters as it has become due entirely to this unnamed man and his abhorrent following.

Inspiring Illustrations - The Robe That Terror Wears

30). The Robe That Terror Wears

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

A cold wind blows from the sea and with it she steps upon the shores of Hyperborea. The storm walks with her and seeking life she brings the frozen death to the land. Her touch is blue ice as are her eyes. Innocent, the curse she bears is a slow moving doom that no spell, no sword can touch.

In the frozen wasteland that she leaves behind her a shadow moves. Her tormentor follows casting chains of ice upon the dead. To save the land is to save her and face what she cannot.

Already the path she has taken is filled with white death. Villages are stilled, silent tombs whose doors are opening as a greater evil emerges into the cloud-wrapped day. All is darkness as if evening had swallowed the noonday sun.

From the northern shores of  Hyperborea comes the call for help as an endless winter begins to swallow the land. A woman walks alone ahead of the desolation, but is she cause or merely, as she claims, related by those few who have survived her encounter, merely a victim chased by darkness, swallowed by madness and running, running, only a few paces before the storm.

The villages along the Striped Gulf beg for help as their neighbors are caught within the approaching darkness. None have returned of all those who have searched for answers. Only the woman who walks ahead of the storm.

Inspiring Illustrations - She Speaks A Scarlet Mist

29). She Speaks A Scarlet Mist

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

Who can say when the blood of man was polluted with the foulness of undeath. From what blackened and defiled corner of Old Earth where first they arose is unknown. Every corner of the globe speaks of them, Bruja, Dachnavar, Draugir, Chang Kuei, Mara, Striga, Vampire.

In Hyperborea it is the same, though only at Ix of the Black Gulf at the Rim of the World do they find welcome. In all other lands are they hunted and if found slain, though it is no easy task. Vampires are social creatures that form a family with a patriarch or matriarch ruling over them, but these paternal figures feel no love or attachment for their offspring and will use them for their pleasure and their defense willingly sacrificing all those they deem their 'children' for their defense or even simple gain. At times these Hyperborean vampires will tire of their family and will slaughter them all gathering their tainted blood in great casks like wine to be aged and consumed at a later date.

Vampires always choose the strongest or most beautiful or talented humans to be their victims and future 'children'. Around this family are collected groups of ensnared servants or 'thralls' as the Norse from Vikland call them. These are half-drained victims of the vampires who ensorceled into fanatical loyalty to their vampiric masters.

While vampires may be found in ruins, catacombs or graveyards, they often join the society of large cities such as Khromarium or Ptolemides. Some have taken over Norse halls or holdings of the Rus or villas of the Hellenes near to Ptolemides.

There are rumors and traces of a vampiric brood gathering in the vast metropolis of Khromarium and the local guard as well as a cabal of certain powerful sorcerors are interested in finding them. While a small bounty is placed on the capture or heads of any proven thralls, a much greater reward can be gathered for the bodies (living or dead, but living pays better) of any of the Vampiric family. The Lord or Mistress of the clan would garner the greater reward but such a capture or even a defeat of one of these monsters is deemed unlikely.

Inspiring Illustrations - The Gateway of Cruel Desire

27). The Gateway of Cruel Desire

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

Cold is the path of the dead and colder still is the heart of the Necromancer. And yet there is a passion that lurks within this twisted breed of mage that drives them forward into the darkest and most loathsome of places; none more so than the tomb-temple to be found on the Isle of Ghul.

The gateway is ancient, older than the Necromancer that rules the isle, and in a language that only the daemon's of the abyss can recognize, though they curse and shun the place, a story of power, lust in all its meanings, and torment is spelled out in the carven entranceway to this labyrinth. Twisted and endless are the passageways of the Tomb, lost is the temple, and lost as well are the souls of all who have fallen within this accursed charnel house. The carven gateway is beautiful and the massive doors of bronze, green with verdigris, sit open, the outer chamber is marble and granite, a dried fountain with sculptures of water nymphs surrounding its bowl, but from the open grill of its drain, too small for any human to utilize, come the screams of the dead, and the massive doors are shut, silently without warning, and no spike or iron or blockade of stone can prevent their closure, not to open again till the sun has set and risen once more.

Hiding behind a marble bench in a room further into the labyrinth will be found a young girl, emaciated, scarred from torture, wild-eyed and clad in rags. She will speak in a language that only the aid of sorcery will make clear, and pleas for help. Her tormentor is within the tomb, he has set her here to hunt down and torture. She has no idea how long she has been within the tomb, she has never seen the temple, but she is of flesh and blood, though weak and starved. She can lead any who would follow her to a secret room entered through a series of levers held as spears and swords among an array of statues that bear an uniformity of look but of no make recognizable to any living in this age of the world since the fall of Atlantis.

Inside the chamber is a clear pool and drinking from it will heal wounds but alleviate hunger any more than the taste of unenchanted water would. This has been her refuge.

Stepping back outside this room will find the scowling visages of half a score of animated warriors. Defeating them, now flesh and blood themselves, will be no easy task, but the rewards are the armor and weapons of these doughty foes. The tomb goes further...

Inspiring Illustrations - This Feast of Battle

26). This Feast of Battle

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

War has always been a living thing among the Kimmerians and their half-breed kinsmen. The Kimmerian-Kelts are an offshoot of centuries of warfare between the clans of the Kimmerians and the tribes of the Kelts. The mixed breed children born of these wars, the raids, the rapine, the endless chain of murder and revenge, have been rejected by both sides. Sometimes abandoned to nature and never more than starving and mistreated outsiders existing on the refuse of either society these unwanted children slowly banded together and formed their own tribes but as a single clan. Their hatred for their pure breed kindred has welded them into a single sprawling family where every member is a brother or sister regardless of tribe or chieftain.

Recently this unity of purpose has become embodied in the spirit of a single man. Zhalov of the Yellow Beard has become the first of their clan to unite all of the Kimmerian-Keltic tribes under a single ruler. Born of a Kimmerian slave held in Keltic lands Zhalov broke his shackles and escaped his servitude fleeing into grasslands of Vol. Hunted by a warparty of Kelts he turned on his attackers time and again but was slowly forced into a stony outcropping which sat on the verge of the mire that is the Lug Wasteland. At last he was cornered and in his fight among the stones he slew six of the surviving warparty and sent the last few Kelts fleeing his wrath. Wounded and with a storm approaching Zhalov sought shelter among the rocks and found a crevice no wider than his own shoulders which he crawled into.

When the light of dawn touched him Zhalov was surprised to find that he was not alone in his shelter. The crumbling body of some ancient warrior shared his cave. Beside the body was a sword whose edge crackled with lightning when he touched its hilt and a strange weapon that was nearly the death of him. At first he could not decide if the strange device was a weapon or some tool of the ancient man who had died in the cave. Its shape was odd and it had the look of something that might be used as a crutch with a smooth metal end that fit nicely beneath his arm diminishing down to a length of hollow round metal. Peering inside the hollow he could find nothing.

Zhalov was weak and badly wounded, but the cave had the feel of death to it now and he would stay there no longer. With the use of his new found metal stick he pulled himself back through the crevice and into the sunlight. The stones around him were slick and in his descent he slipped, his hand clutched at his metal stick and found the odd strip of metal that projected from its side. Suddenly the stick erupted in a flair of lightning which shattered the rock nearby. Zhalov was sprayed  with tiny flecks of stone but he felt them not and only stared in wonder at this powerful weapon he had been banging against the stones.

Weeks later Zhalov was riding deep within the grasslands of Vol on the horse of a Kimmerian who fell to his lightning blade. He found himself looking at a swirl of horsemen in the distance. It was a dark year for the half-breed tribesman of Vol. The Kimmerians were raiding in force, slaying the old, enslaving the young, riding off with what loot they could find and the horses and herds of their victims. In a blaze of blue fire Zhalov rode down upon the Kimmerians. His thunderstick causing fear and panic as he approached, his lightning sword unstoppable. The prophecy of the great savage fighting man had been fulfilled and the feast of battle had begun.

Inspiring Illustrations - Riding the Wolf

25). Riding the Wolf

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

When the Rus found themselves transported to Hyperborea many of their traditional ways immediately changed. The Boet, a group of warrior-hunters finely attuned to living in the wild, were possessed by the spirit of the Vukodlak; an ability akin to lycanthropy. While they could not change themselves into the aspect of a wolf they became attuned to the nature of wolves and discovered a monstrous form of wolf lurking on the outskirts of their towns and settlements. Whether these were wolves from Rusland altered by the powerful magic which caused the dislocation from old Earth to Hyperborea or whether these beasts were already in Hyperborea the Boet do not know and these wolves cannot tell them, though along with their gargantuan size the wolves have gained the power of speech, their memories begin with their first encounters of the Rus and their adoption of the Boet.

According to Vas'Ka, the pack leader of all the wolves in Rusland (anywhere the Rus settle is called Rusland) the Boet just smell right and a bond of friendship and even brotherhood has sprung up between the two.

Never much for horses and more at home in the thick forest or the hills and mountains the Boet were always poor horseman, but with the coming of the great wolves they now ride in packs through the forest and steppes that surround Hyperborea's Rusland or scrabble through the stoney hills and inhospitable heights on their borders. The great wolves are as big as ponies, but stronger and heavier, their bodies all muscle and dense bone.  The Boet ride them when there is a need for haste though most often a pair of human and great wolf can be encountered hunting the forest or patrolling the roadways between town and village or camping on some hill, sharing their days catch.

Boets tend to wear a shirt of fine chain sometimes with a sleeveless vest of leather over the metal. Many will wear a cap of iron, steel or leather, but just as many disdain such and grow their hair long which they tie back and tuck under the collar of their armored shirt. They are almost never found without bow or sling, but they tend to favor a spear and a short sword as weapons.

Their new wolfish affinity has given them keener sense making it easier for them to track animals or enemies. They can be killed or wounded like any other man, but heal twice as quickly. The can speak to animals though they speak Rus to the great wolves and the great wolves can growl out a few short words of Rus back to them.

The great wolves of Rusland are several times the size of a normal wolf, the largest are truly the size of horses and even the smallest is big and strong enough to carry a normal-sized Boet. Their senses are slightly less keen than that of a normal wolf but still greater than a man's. They bond with their human companions and will fight to the death against any who would attack them. On the death of a Boet companion the great wolf will pine and grieve, and let its life pass away within three days of the loss of a companion.

The bonding ceremony between Boet and great wolf is called Riding the Wolf and the pair set out on a tour of Rusland. This is celebrated by a massive hunt with dozens of Boet and great wolves participating culminating in a feast where the families, wolves and human, join in to eat what the hunt has gathered.

Most Boet and great wolves are encountered alone, but that is only the cautious nature of the hunters. There will usually be from three to five other Boet and great wolves somewhere nearby waiting to see if they have encountered friend or foe. In any case there will always be at least one pair of wolf and rider that is does not reveal themselves. These Boet are a suspicious lot outside of their own kind, which is the main reason they and the Rus have prospered in this strange land of Hyerborea  that is now their home.

Inspiring Illustrations - The Temple of the Blind

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

24). The Temple of the Blind

In the Red Desert men have found fortunes in mines of silver, iron and copper, but the cost is often their lives, as the sages have written and the families of the men lost to this cold wasteland will attest. Men do not live in the Red Desert but things that hold themselves as men do. Beast like creatures that ape the ways of men haunt the steppes and high grounds, walk the bottoms of dried out seas where the bones of ships can be found, the detritus of ages past; lost fleets and lone vessels from different times and places. Ships of wood, ships of bone, ships of metal that could never have floated, ships of glass; their shattered hulls flaring like beacons when the sun's rays break through the dismal perennial clouds which roof the wasteland.

Then there are the sightless men and their temple city with the vast blind effigy of their god which sits amid the cavernous homes of their metropolis. Sightless they are with smooth flesh where their eyes should be, but doubly keen are their other senses. They can hear the breath of their enemy, the sound of every move. It is said that the wind which blows across the desert is the dying words of their stone god and with it they can hear what a man could see. Hear shapes and the space between the leaves of a plant, hear the distance between walls of their home and the table where the sit to dinner, hear the roughness of the ground, the edge of a cliff, the half-buried root that would trip a seeing man.

The sightless men are disdainers of magic and have no liking for those who practice the arcane art. They are a pious people and many dedicate themselves to the worship of their dead stone god. They are strong warriors and amazing with any weapon that is thrown, especially the use of the sling. They have an affinity with stone.

Their homes are colorless and dark except where a random streak of some unintended, unseen brightness has been added. They have no liking for fire and seem immune to the heat of the day or the frosty chill of the night. They delve deep into the earth of Hyperborea and trade precious metals and gems with men who dare the wasteland. They are always greedy for weapons or items of metal which they do not produce themselves. They weapons and items that they craft for themselves are stone, crystal or bone.

While they appear almost human their flesh is rough and scale-like, they have no hair and their teeth are a single ridge of bone that grows throughout their life and must be worn down usually by an oblong of stone they use as a file or rasp.

The sightless men are dangerous to deal with though once they have established trade with a man they will deal fairly, but they are constantly looking for men and dangerous beasts to sacrifice to their god. The method of sacrifice is said to be truly horrific as the sightless men eat their victims alive within the confines of their temple, first pummeling them with thrown stones, then setting upon the near senseless captive in a maddened pack and consuming the body utterly till nothing is left but cracked bones upon a blood soaked floor.

Inspiring Illustrations - Tesla and the Unknown Region

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer

23). Tesla and the Unknown Region

"Darest thou now O soul.

Walk out with me toward the unknown region,

Where neither ground is for the feet nor any

Path to follow?"

One day Nikolai Tesla walked out onto his stage between his machines of tamed lightning and in a blinding flash disappeared from Old Earth forever.

The gulfs of space are not empty. No, they are filled with a horror older than time, beings that should not be and are inimical to man. Their gaze which is not sight wanders the galaxy peering deep into the darkness as easily as they stare into the blinding core of a sun. Some have fallen to Earth and the hint of their shadow haunts the dark corners of the mind. Others have crawled between what is and what was and what may come venturing forth in madness and ecstasy. And in Hyperborea many of these dark powers are worshiped as Gods though they care not thirsting only for the souls of men and lusting after torment and despair.

The men of Old Earth have touched they veil that hides these beings delving deep into the grinding spheres too small for the eye to detect or summoning the lighting and chaining the elementals to dance for their pleasure. Nikolai Tesla was one of these men, a powerful wizard that changed the substance of the world by tearing apart the veils and thrusting his mind into the white light of creation. In his hands he wielded the power of light and fire and awoke the beasts which lurk.

In a confrontation that removed him from the world of modern man he broke the spine of the daemon summoned against him and fashioned a gateway from its unearthly flesh powered by its own hellish spirit. His gaze sought a refuge and in the mist shrouded land of Hyperborea that exists beyond time and the geography of any but the mind he stepped from Old Earth and into the ageless realm.

A new Wizard walks the streets of Khromarium. Tesla came upon Hyperborea with nothing but power and with his power he has fashioned himself a citadel in the ancient ruins of the great city. His tower blazes with globes of fire, with chilling lightnings that can crawl across the ground, across the flesh of man without burning, without ending. His power is great but his needs for metal, for this Hyperborean magic he has discovered, for his automations that guard his laboratories, all are great and many a merchant and adventurer has profited greatly in their dealings with striding giant of light and raw power.

Tesla has stepped from Old Earth through the Unknown Region into Hyperborea and shaken the foundations of all. Opportunity abounds, he can be a generous master, a powerful allie or a terrible enemy, but the choice is yours.

Inspiring Illustrations - A Crown of Snakes and Flowers

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer.

20). A Crown of Snakes and Flowers

When the doom finally came upon the great city of Kor the King was lost, his body and the crown of Kor never found. It is said that the nameless beast, which no power seemed able to stop, slew the king and consumed his body leaving only a bloody bag of flesh behind, but there are rumors that the king escaped through tunnels beneath the city which led beyond the walls into the dense surrounding forest.

Escaped or slain, he was never seen again but within the forest of Koth (called Trogos by the native tribes of ape-men and fish-eyed troglodytes) the crown of Kor, adorning a worn and ancient skull, has been described as the center of an inhuman and barbaric shrine. The crown is of reddish gold formed into bands of snakes and flowers, and so the shrine is a strangely bright affair of flowers laid in offering while snakes writhe about the rotting bodies and man and beast beneath their floral coat.

Tribes of the frog-like reptilian trogs surround the shrine, and their fondness for snakes has led them to cultivate true monstrosities as pets. What other relics of mighty Kor may be found if this truly be the lost crown, and are the worn bones and fleshless skull the pitiful remnants of its once powerful king?   

Inspiring Illustrations - The Hanged Man

 19). The Hanged Man

The roadsides of Hyperborea are dotted with hanging trees, gallows or gibbets, rarely unoccupied. These are often places of the unconsecrated dead and in consequence are avoided or quickly passed by the common folk of the locale, but it is not unusual to see a cleric setting wards, a patrol of warders and workmen removing one malodorous corpse to make room for a fresh one, a wandering skald, a lurking necromancer's apprentice, a pair of body-snatchers, or among the Rus, a dispossed drifter called a Zhulik serving some vile purpose of the local Koldun ( a type of Witch/Necromancer/Soothsayer) as depicted here.

The Hanged Man serves as a warning to rebels, outsiders and any troublemakers and the spaces on the gibbet are all too readily filled. The symbol of The Hanged Man is found in many lands of Hyperborea among thieves as a simple twist of rope or as a small doll-like figure of cloth among certain dark cults of murder and assassination. Among the Norse it is banned emblem and those found with it are subject to the punishment of Ullr. 

Inspiring Illustrations - Older Than The Memory of the Dead

NOTE: These are adventure seeds and setting work for my own Hyperborea campaign inspired by the Astonishing Swordsmen & Sorcerors of Hyperborea Gazetteer.

18). Older Than The Memory of the Dead

The foundations of Khromarium are set deeper and more firmly than bedrock. They touch upon the boundary of the black abyss and the nightmare dreams of the Elder Gods who were never worshiped by man. More terrible than the bodies of the Dead that Walk are the Blue-men who inhabit these frail shells of humanity.  That they themselves are corpses of some ancient and unknown race speaks of a terror the passing ages has allowed to endure.

The Blue-men are corrupters and desecrators. They delight in pain and the torture of the living. They trample the ceremonies and rituals of the Gods beneath their feet and scatter the offerings of the pious. Rarely seen, the Blue-men are powerful and draw energy from the power of priests and mages. The drain the life from strong warriors and wear their skin as a cloak to mask their decaying limbs. They find their ways into the very bones of men.

When and where they will appear is unknown. They prefer moonless nights but will come out in the brightest day. Singly they are a terror, but in groups of three or four they are a devastation. Wherever they come from it is deep beneath the great city, among the tunnels that wind down and down beneath the earth, swallowed in darkness, older than the memory of the dead.

Inspiring Illustrations - Bearers of the Dead

17). Bearers of the Dead

One of the more bizarre cults of Hyperborea is the Priesthood of the Burden. When and where they first arose is a mystery and who their patron deity may actually be, if they have any at all, is unknown. Each priest is a strong man or woman, they have need to be, for each morning when they rise they pray to their deity and strap onto their back the bones of the dead. Are these the bones of a loved one? An enemy? A worshipper of their unknown God? Only members of their order know and none will say.

They have no temples, no shrines, though they are often seen among tombs or graveyards. They offer no prayers and give no sermons though they sell their services and gain coin through the power granted to them. The members of the priesthood may be found in Khromarium, Ptolemides, Yitharium, almost anywhere in Hyperborea carrying their gruesome burden upon their back where-ever they go.

Inspiring Illustrations - The Blood of Medusa

16). The Blood of Medusa

The Hellenic people came to Hyperborea long ago. They came in single galleys and large fleets, the greatest were those lost coming home from the ruin of Troy swallowed by the capricious will of the Gods and the dark waters that separated the living world from the realm of the dead. They found a land much different than their sunny warm homeland but they also found other Hellens and they found both their monsters and their Gods. It is said that Apollo has walked in Hyperborea since the dawn of time and wild Pan has left Old Earth to dwell here for long ages. So too dwells the Medusa or the Gorgon as they call her here.

The Medusa in Hyperborea is not she of Old Earth legend, but these Medusae are her kin. Her sisters or her children. They are found on the many islands which dot the cold Hyperboread sea, they inhabit the peaks and passes of the great mountains which split the continent and rise toward heights greater than man has ever climbed. As deadly as their Old Earth namesake, they leave the smashed fragments of common men and heroes, frozen by their gaze, amid their lairs and hidden dens.

The bravest of men hunt these fiends, fair in body and face, but foul in spirit with a nest of vipers for their hair. To slay a medusa is to earn more than fame. Even dead the power of their gaze remains in their own cold, dead eyes. And the blood of a medusa will grant a man flesh that can turn a blade, healing that can return a man from death, or reflesh men turned to stone.

It is said in Ptolemides that the son of the last Hellen king is a frozen statue in the lair of a Medusae Queen and that to free him will see the lost glory of the Hellenic people and the fortunes of Ptolemides return to a golden age not seen since the coming of the heroes in the long ages past. Much gold and much more speculation is now spent on where this Queen may reside but the common belief is that the great captain Eudoxus and his expedition is bound for an isle shown only on a parchment-skin map held in trust by the priests of Apollo.