The Carriages of Zyan

Immortal Zyan is a mazy city, with hollow, hill, and cliff a plenty, and meandering streets opening onto covered arcades, networks of alleys, or stairways and tucked-away courtyards. It is convenient for those who can afford to spare their feet or are unsure of how to reach their destination to employ alternate means of transportation. 

By Boat

In some places canals cut through neighborhoods, as the weed-choked Blisterfish Canal winds through Turnabout, bleeding into swamps and fens until it reaches the Sink, a sordid sewer harbor. Here the clan of Piquant Bosuns ferry passengers in simple canoes or rotting barges along its messy course for a pittance. In Chimes, the Glistertwist flows in summer months from Finchleech, a beautiful reeded pond in the wooded western end of the neighborhood. Here the antique clan of Estimable Ferriers still operate their flat-bottomed gondolas wearing ancient masks, passed from one generation of rower to the next, beneath preposterous hats of the latest fashion. Such rides are free to members of neighborhood clans, who pay the Estimable Ferriers a fixed fee, but cost a pretty penny for visitors. They will, under no circumstances, transport riff-raff, puppet hooligans, or other ruffians. 

By Palanquin

Because the waterways are limited, other modes of transit are more popular. Most commonly used are the palanquin porters. Palanquins come in all shapes, sizes, and degrees of opulence, from simple wicker biers to compartments of gleaming dark wood veiled by perfumed silk curtains. Different clans use different designs and decorations. Competition between them is fierce, and sometimes leads to palanquins being upset in street brawls. Here are only a few of the dozens of clans of Palanquin Porters: 

• The iron masked clan of Forgotten Beasts carry plain wicker palanquins with little fanfare. Their symbol is a black stencil of a shaggy beast.  
• The yellow masked clan of Forward Anglers aggressively courts passengers whom they transport in simple open boxes. Their symbol is a colorful fish. 
• With masks of painted silk, the clan of Thrice Denied Courtiers carry black lacquered enclosed palanquins with silk curtains. Their symbol is a man spurned at a dance. 
• The pearl-veiled clan of Aria Runners carries passengers in opulent domed palanquins with glass windows. They are always accompanied by an opera singer. (These palanquin songs are a memorable feature of the soundscape of Zyan.)

By Carriage

Next in expense come the carriages. Many clans operate them, such as the Upright Ecru Coven and the clan of the Manifold Wheel. The least expensive carriages, often of plain black wood, are pulled by the tremble-legged Usquin, zebra-striped giraffes with ant-eater heads. Their legs snap, going lame with alarming frequency and delaying rides, but they reproduce even faster and feed on garbage, so a surfeit of replacements is always on hand. More expensive are those solid carriages, often metal with golden filagree pulled by striders, many legged white sinuous giant caterpillar beasts. 

For travel in dangerous neighborhoods, carriages sometimes employ security, provided not infrequently by recruits from the Sons and Daughters of the Vigilant Watchers, an ancient mercenary clan of Zyan specializing in the protection of transportation. While carriages cannot travel into the broken paving and soggy fens of Turnabout or up the precipitous steps of the higher reaches of Volish Hill, and are perilous propositions in tilted Cusp, they are more comfortable and secure than most other modes of transit.  

By Nimbus Barque

But the most remarkable means of conveyance are, without a doubt, the Nimbus Barques. The Endless Azure Sea that surrounds Zyan on all sides can be heard breaking upon the tumbled rocky shores beyond the wall of cusp, or crashing against the cliffs beside the Observatory of the Horoscops. In the Azure Sea, clouds float like islands, some partaking more and others less in solidity. In the halcyon days of the Incandescent Kings, sorcerers knew the art of binding of the clouds to service. Although this knowledge is lost now, a few such remarkable vessels remain in Zyan.

Blusterio  

White and grey, with roiling and flashing depths, Blusterio sometimes drizzles a fine rain on pedestrians beneath. Atop is a small deck, lined with sturdy seats with buckles to strap in riders, and many fine red sails atop small masts. It is captained by Hartoon of the clan of Notorious Oyster Climbers, who wears a white bearded mask and is gruff. The barque is blown by Hexifan, a spirit of the air, bound by antique contract. His billowing breath fills the sails, and send the cloud lurching at alarming speeds across the sky.  

Starlingheist 

Fluffy and white, trailing wisps. Atop is a gleaming platform with a fine filigreed bannister and small interior cabin for rainy weather. This more gentle vessel is captained by merry Fambilwan of the clan of Animal Dancers. He wears a green mask and fez, and sits a seat at the front with the reins of the cloud. The barque is pulled by a flock of charmed starlings in tiny harnesses. The murmuration of this flock of steeds is nearly deafening.

Roseferry

Pink and rosy, a delicious little cloud at sunset. The top of this barque has no deck, but is soft under foot like calfskin, and is strewn about with luxurious cushions. It is captained by gentle Ayelas of the clan of Airy Tremblers, who wears a vertical half mask of a cherub. It is powered by Zephyr Harmony, a magical harp on which Ayelas plays dulcet melodies that send the cloud smoothly sailing over Zyan.

How are Issues 1 & 2 of Through Ultan's Door Connected? And other news

First, some news: 

1. DriveThruRPG has finally approved the PDF of Issue 2 of Through Ultan's Door. You can now purchase electronic copies of the zine here.

2. I have heard the voice of the people, and chosen to add shipping directly from my Big Cartel store to Canada. Note: it is not really any less expensive than buying it from the Melsonian Arts Council, and I'm not sure how much faster it'll get there. But should you want the option to buy it closer to home, you can now do so. Everyone else outside the U.S. should go to The Melsonian Arts Council.

But now, on to the main topic. I've received some questions about the Catacombs of the Fleischguild featured in issue 2 relates to the Ruins of the Inquisitor's Theater in Issue 1. The short answer is that the Catacombs are down river from the Ruins of the Inquisitor's Theater. If you just hop in that ornate green canoe at area 25 of the Inquisitor's Theater, and paddle with the current downstream, in 15 minutes you will find yourself at the entrance to the Catacombs of the Fleischguild.

Originally, I had been planning on including a map of the sewer river with issue 2. But it's a point crawl map, which necessitates descriptions of quite a few nodes, and a big old encounter table. It proved to be too much material to include in issue 2, and I decided to bump to issue 3. I was also encouraged to do this because Gus drew a crazy great map of the sewer river that really fired my imagination. So this made me want to give it the space to breath in an entire issue. This has produced the awkward situation that I'm giving you a second dungeon on a pointcrawl map without giving you the map or rules for transit between destinations. C'est la vie.

A Teaser of one part of Gus' deliciously crazy sewer map

I will try to rectify this by making some more material about the sewer river available here in advance of issue 3, which is, naturally, still a long way off. But it's worth saying this too:

The Ruins of the Inquisitor's Theater is intended as a slow burning entree into the strange world of Wishery that lies on the other side of Ultan's Door. The Catacombs of the Fleischguild is different. While it "lifts the curtain" on further mysteries of Zyan, it is much more of a self-contained "jewel box" of a dungeon. For all its implied Zyanese theology and culture, it is more amenable to being dropped in to existing campaigns without the aid of Ultan's door to the dreamlands. Of course, for me, it is and always will be part of Wishery. But the waking world is full of echoes of Wishery (or is the other way around?), so perhaps this dungeon can find its way directly into your Living Greyhawk or Duskvol or City State of the Invincible Overlord. I would be the last to imagine that I could contain such phantasms by placing them on a map.

White Jungle Races: Plumed Reavers & Mole Rat People

By Evlyn M

In the hypnogogic twilight of the threshold of slumber a vision wafts towards you on the fragrant, scented breeze that blows through the bright groves and shady bowers of the White Jungle. Oh intimations of strange races from a topsy turvy jungle! Perhaps in your next opium dream your psyche may be cast into the role of one of these vessels of adventure.

Plumed Reavers

By Evlyn M

Flocks of these winged humanoids may be seen flitting from tree to tree in the Bright Groves and the Windy Isles, the sparse and airy lowest levels of the White Jungle, where they dwell. Their originally bright and colorful plumage is stained and mangy from constant exposure to the jungle's offal rains. They are counted among the many hazards of the jungle's lower levels, their rotting parrot's finery and the sounds of their beating wings striking fear into the hearts of jungle denizens. For they are savage raiders without mercy, who delight in the suffering of their victims, often dropping bound victims to their death in the heavens below for sport. Although their tastes are crude, they enjoy bartering the goods they seize for colorful baubles and arms, and have a bird's curiosity.

Plumed reavers have developed immunity to the offal rains of the White Jungle. In addition, their hardy immune systems grants them +4 to save vs. disease. Starting at 2nd level, their wings become strong enough to support flight. At this point, they acquire a fly move of 12", which requires space for a 6" wingspan. They must for a round for every turn of flight.

Min/Max: Str 9/18  Int 3/15 Wis 3/16 Dex 6/18 Con 12/18 Cha 3/16
Racial Adjustments: Con +1 Chr -2 Wis -1
Permitted Classes: Fighter, Ranger, Druid
XP Adjustment: -10%

The party from the waking world currently has a cautious if neglected alliance with the savage plumed reavers. Bryan Mullins played a plumed reaver, Keew, who helped the party pillage the riches of the legendary lost Hanging Palace.

Mole Rat People

By Evlyn M

The mole rat people live in the darkness of the massive root ball warrens in the Brambles at the top (the base) of the White Jungle. They are diminutive, with pink wrinkled skin and twitching whiskers. They are great believers in rank and station, their society abounding in a superfluity of hereditary ranks, and honorary titles under the benevolent authority of their beloved Queen Bethany. Although they never wear pants, they otherwise dress as befits their stations with epaulets and medals, and tiny suits of armor and weapons. They are prone to romantic dispositions, heroes and scoundrels both.

The mole rats are small in size, roughly 2.5 feet tall. They must wield tiny weapons that do 1 die less damage. (So a two-handed sword does 1d8, and a longsword 1d6.) Their vision is keen in the darkness, but sensitive to the light. They can see 120' even in pitch darkness, 60' in shade, but only 30' in sunlight. Their time in the rootwarrens allows them to detect sloping passages, and they have an unerring direction sense underground. They receive saving throw bonuses as halflings, and a -2 AC  against normal sized opponents or larger.

Min/Max: Str 3/14 Int 5/18 Wis 5/18 Dex 6/18 Con 3/18 Cha 6/18
Racial Adjustments: Str -1 Cha +1 Dex+1
Permitted Classes: Fighter, Paladin, Thief, Magic-User
XP Adjustment: +10%

Evlyn M

The party from the waking world are fast friends with the mole rat people, having all received the title of Knight Errant after helping them vanquish the hideous encroaching hybubs, boneless oozing ghouls. Aleks Revzin will soon be taking over a beloved NPC mole rat person, The Viscount LeGrande, pictured below.

The Viscount LeGrande

How Should I Share My Dreamlands Material?

I want to share with you my labor of love, the D&D dreamlands material that has formed the basis for my nearly 3 year (and still running) campaign on google plus, and about a dozen posts here. Speaking with Robert Parker the other day helped crystallize two major issues I've been struggling with in figuring out how to do this.

The first is that it's too BIG to produce. It is divided in reality and in my mind into three parts: (1) Zyan Between, the cluster of (more or less modular) dungeons in the undercity of Zyan that Ultan's door opens into. (2) Zyan Below, a 3-D hex crawl through the inverted white jungle that hangs from the bottom of the rock of Zyan. (3) Zyan Above, a cursed city in the dreamlands. It thus comprises a point crawl between dungeons, a massive wilderness hex crawl across four stacked hex maps, and a full city supplement. AND there are three tent pole dungeons, of the 200-400 room variety (only two of which my players have visited).

And even if it could be produced, what genre of RPG book would it be? Well, it's a tightly thematically unified campaign setting book for sure. In theory people don't like that kind of book, although they might like this. But it's also a point crawl between more or less modular dungeons, a wilderness setting in a dreamy alien jungle, and a city supplement. Oh yeah, and also kinda a megadungeon book (or three). Yeah right.

OK, so let's get real. How can I do this thing?

Robert suggested that I break it up (for now) and release things bit by bit, starting at the beginning. The idea would be start with Ultan's door and the area it opens into in the undercity of Zyan. (It opens into a dungeon called "The Ruins of The Inquisitor's Theater".) Zyan Between, where The Ruins of The Inquisitor's Theater is located, is inspired by the underworld of Empire of the Petal Throne, a vast complex of tombs, temples, and Red Nails style empty chambers. Zyan Between is the best entry point for introducing players and DMs alike to Zyan, since it's the most familiar in terms of the tropes of D&D. It's not as batshit crazy, or nearly as ambitious as the White Jungle or the city of Zyan itself.

So supposing this is the place to start, how should I do it? Robert suggested that maybe I should start a Patreon and do the first couple of dungeons, perhaps all of Zyan Between, as free PDFs with costs offset through supporter contributions. But my career doesn't allow me to make commitments to paying supporters that I will meet regular deadlines, so Patreon does not seem optimal.

Another option would be to do it as a series of zines. The first zine, for example, might be The Ruins of the Inquisitor's Theater. The second might be The Great Sewer River, and so on. Roughly one dungeon or pointcrawl area per issue. If the zine was modestly successful it might at least pay for itself, allowing me to hire people to do maps, art, and layout.

Another option is to do Zyan between as a series of free pdfs available for the community. (I love you guys so hard.) Without any funding source, they would have to be pretty bare bones, using my crappy maps, and maybe a single piece of commissioned art. Doing this doesn't foreclose eventually representing the material in a more developed commercial form. That's what ended up happening with my first module, The Submerged Spire of Sarpedon the Shaper, which started on my blog, migrated to the free supplement From the Vats, and is now going to be published (and sold) in a prettier, better, and more usable form by Necrotic Gnome Press. So if I do it free first, maybe later it could be presented in a different form. Or maybe not. Either way it gets to you.

A third option would be just to try to pair with a small publisher, and do Zyan Between as a series of modules. This would likely allow the most adequate presentation of the material, with for real layout, decent maps, and lurvely illustrations. But it wouldn't be as cheap as a zine, much less a free PDF. Also, I'm not sure that I will be able to find a publisher, although I'm certainly game to try.

So what do you think? How should I do it? What form would you prefer? Zines? Free no frills PDFs? Published modules? Any options I'm not considering?

Punishment by Puppet, Splendid and Terrible

Original art by Dirk Detweiler Leichty

The Inquisitors judge all men by the crooked law of Zyan. Like the assayer marking the invisible boundary of each plot, so the Inquisitors divide a life with their casuistry, saying, "this action was permitted, that forbidden". For each transgression, they weigh culpability with nuance, reckoning up the punishments. Justice is to be seen as well done, and when done right, justice is a splendid show. In reality, the sheer volume of cases elicits standardized responses with wry wrinkles around the edges. Most creativity is reserved for the class of acts deemed "iniquitous abhorrent". For it is only acts of this singular severity that are punishable by the puppet shows for which the Inquisitor's Guild is beloved.

Such shows are relished by all ranks of Zyan. Young and old, from clans high and low, they stream to the Theater of Justice in the tilted neighborhood of Cusp. They come bedizened with orchids in their hair, carrying picnic baskets, and bottles of the ochre wine of Chimes, or jugs of the spicy grog of Gutter. Filling the seats of the open-aired theater, for a time, they forget their cares. Laughter and breathless chatter ripples through the crowd, as they comment eagerly on the wretched occupants of the small gilded cages below, and wager on the puppets they are to face. With great morbid anticipation, their glance is drawn to the massive doors that stand opposite the cages. These are painted in gaudy colors, and decorated with images of sacred Afatis, the many headed queen of puppets. When the festival horn sounds it clarion call, the cages are opened by boys who run to the edge of the stage to be pulled up by ropes. To gay drum beats, the massive doors swing, and the punishment puppets step forward from the darkness into the light of the arena to deafening cheers from the crowd.

Dirk Detweiler Leichty

No two puppets are the same, although crowd favorites resurface from time to time.  Sublime products of antique art, they possess stunning elegance, cruel caprice, or comedic wit. Fiendishly clever machines, they are constructed of the finest materials: patterned silks and damask, draped atop polished wood with bronze and copper flourishes, and cables of twisting white metal. In a city where mask-making is the highest art, the masks born by the puppets are rare splendors. Some bear masks front and back, two opposed puppets in one that turn now this way, now that, fighting in contrasting styles. Some conceal masks within masks, peeling back to reveal new layers and inner transformations, others masks dangle as grapes from elegant chains, or peer from many places within the swirling silks that cover the puppets mechanical core. Some are gruesome weapons, slaying with flicking tongues, or sprays of pink acid, or pouring from their smoldering eyes killer wasps enraged by the heated metal that surrounds their hive.

The puppets' modes of locomotion vary. Some contain performers, skilled acrobats on stilts who fight with wild leaping abandon. Others are giant marionettes, operated by performers in the roof beams of the stage. Still others are arcane in nature, linked to the movements of a mime on a separate stage high above, or operated through the changing pitch of a string choir. The most perilous are those possessed by an ancient malevolence, moved by the cruel whims of a demon of Afatis, or guided by an intelligence from beyond the nighted gulfs of space. Such puppets are used with great caution, for they often run amok with bloody catastrophe.

Dirk Detweiler Leichty

The guildsmen fashion smaller puppets too, man-sized automata that guard shrines or assassinate guild foes. Some of these life-sized horrors are despatched to terrorize the Guildless, the exiled mutes who dwell in the sewers of Zyan Between. Like relentless clockwork nightmares, these automata whir and stutter through the blackened tunnels bringing red pain and desperate pursuit to these lost souls.

The siege puppets, fruit of another branch of the Inquisitor's baroque art, are suits of armor, encasing an acrobat pilot, usually on stilts. They often have the appearance of fearsome beasts, like the numinous jellyfish of the Endless Azure Sea, or the crystalline apes of the White Jungle. Armed with baleful weapons to break shield walls, they are guarded by sigil-covered lanterns that project ethereal fields of evanescent beauty. The art of the siege puppet is now fading, and the suits are passed down as a precious inheritance within prominent guild families. The noble scions of these clans are trained from youth to operate the twisting cables in leaping combat on stilts.

Samples diverse
of these exquisite murder machines:

Flaccid Leviathan, "Squatting Man"

When the huge head of the Flaccid Leviathan, with its vacant staring black sockets, and expressionless stitched face, rears like a nightmare deity from behind the proscenium, throngs swoon, reason dissolving like a swirl of sugar in a tincture equal parts thrill and terror.

This great being was brought from Phantamoria, the dreamlands of the dreamlands, when Zyan was young and the ways were still open through subtle sorceries. The substance of the Leviathan is strange: skin papery like wasps nests, organs like luminous jellied plastic. It emits a smell, sweet and acrid, like caustic anise, and occasional sounds that fill the mind, like the call of whales drowning in an oxygen starved sea. Whether the Flaccid Leviathan is one of a whole race of that alien realm, or a singular entity, whether something created, or something slain and preserved through necromantic abominations, is not known even to its handlers. It is brought out but rarely, only once or twice in a generation, for grand occasions with huge numbers of the guilty. For its preparation and repair is the work of many years.

The Flaccid Leviathan is operated by threads that run between a harness of moonstone set directly into the beast's cerebellum, and a small puppet above that wears a red wig. Elsewhere, a carefully selected child, cruel and imperious, is fitted with the wig's sympathetically attuned twin. This callous youth is presented with a toy simulacrum of the Theater of Justice, complete with little clay figures that replicate the desperate movements of the guilty, who run screaming or hide uselessly in quaking terror at the child's questing fingers. The delighted child plays with these toys, producing in the limbs of the Leviathan the like movements: placing the guilty where it will, posing and undressing them, making them fight, enacting strange shows and scenes. And always in the end, when the novelty of the game wears thin, pulling with great satisfaction the limbs from their bodies squishing their little heads, or mashing their bodies together. (This child is always quietly sacrificed afterwards in the Grand Abbattoir of the Fleischguild.)

The Flaccid Leviathan
Frequency: Unique
No. Appearing: 1
Armor Class: 3
Move: 24" Squatting Walk
Hit Dice: 30 (200 total HP, 40 HP per arm)
No. Attacks: 1
Damage Attacks: 10-60 squash 15" area
Special Defenses: Immune to paralysis and mind-affecting spells; DR/5
Magic Resistance: 50%
Intelligence: As the child (Low Intelligence)
Size: 30' tall when squatting, 50' erect

Original art by Dirk Detweiler Leichty

The Sword Crone, "Old Lady Snip"

Her large form comes onto the stage, stumbling, abject and praying, a parody of religious devotion. She wears a corset of metal, bulging as though with sagging flesh. Her wooden mask, with gray hair over a severe and matronly face, is lifelike and subtle. It is fixed in an expression of intense obedience, as she constantly glances over her shoulder, as though seeking direction from what follows. For the object of her supplication, the strange deity of her singular faith, is never far behind.

This alien god is a tangled mass of tentacles that moves octopus-like, its slender coils caressing the Sword Crone and pushing her forward. Gripped in its many divine pseudo-pods are the instruments of its brutal ministrations: long razors, probing swords, and enormous shears.

The Sword Crone always presents the god of her fawning obeisance to its victims, entreating them by gesture and example to prostrate themselves before their savior and accept its surgical attentions. Should they stubbornly refuse, she becomes enraged, using her coarse hands and inhuman strength to pull them towards their bloody salvation. In reality, the puppeteers sit within the deity, moving the Sword Crone by controlling the tentacles that caress her at many points.

The Sword Crone
Frequency: Unique
No. Appearing: 1
Armor Class: 2
Move: 15"
Hit Dice: 8+8 (56)
No. Attacks: 1
Damage Attacks: 3-12 Pummel or Grapple
Special Attack: None
Special Defenses: None
Magic Resistance: Normal
Intelligence: As the puppeteer (Very Intelligent)
Size: 10' tall

The Deity
Frequency: Unique
No. Appearing: 1
Armor Class: 5
Move: 15"
Hit Dice: 10 (60)
No. Attacks: 5 x slice
Damage Attacks: 1-8/1-8/1-8/1-8/1-8
Special Defenses: None
Magic Resistance: Normal
Intelligence: As the puppeteer (Very Intelligent)
Size: 12' tangled ball

Dirk Detweiler Leichty

Disgorger, "Worm Gullet"

The disgorgers move with relentless purpose through the abandoned tunnels, catacombs, and sewers of Zyan Between, stalking the lost souls that haunt these liminal spaces. The guildless, who have been rendered speechless with the acid "wash" and exiled to the darkness below, call them "Worm Gullets" or "Terrible Ones" in their queer sign language. When they find themselves driven back against rusting bars, or caught in a sudden ambuscade as the disgorgers rise from the black sewer water, they scream silent screams their ruined vocal chords can longer clothe in sound. But the disgorger understands. For it was built to speak the silent language of their fear, and it faithfully provides the response their cries anticipate.

The attack of the disgorger is most terrible. In place of the intestines and lungs, their hollowed torso contains a coil of wire tendrils. With a raspy heaving and metallic panting, they disgorge the tendrils that surge towards the head of the prey, strangling, choking, bleeding, and decapitating. Retracting the severed head, drawn back like a flopping white bellied fish caught in a net, into its jaws, unhinged, impossibly large, and down it goes to its distended belly. Here it rests in an alchemical bath, shrinking and hardening in a days span, acquiring a shiny surface like black lacquer on iron. Thus it takes its place among the coils as a memento. Those disgorgers who have hunted long in the tunnels have many such blackened doll's heads among their coils.

In combat the disgorger strikes with two weapons, often scavenged from its hunts. Provided it has not yet ingested a head, it may instead choose to disgorge its coils. If the attack hits, the target takes 3-12 damage and must save vs. death or be instantly decapitated. It the target saves, he will take 2-8 damage automatically every round, until the disgorger is slain or the target manages to extricate himself. Whatever the result of the attack, once it ends, the disgorger must spend the following round retracting its tendrils.

Disgorger
Frequency: Rare
No. Appearing: 1d3
Armor Class: 3
Move: 12"
Hit Dice: 5 (30)
No. Attacks: 2
Damage Attacks: By weapon +1 to damage
Special Attack: Disgorge Tendrils
Special Defenses: None
Magic Resistance: Normal
Intelligence: Average
Size: 6' tall

Sha Sha Higby

Child of the Sun

This sublime suit of armor was fashioned long ago by Helicanto at the decadent zenith of this strange art. It was one of a series of celestial siege puppets--gorgeous objects of a baroque genius--each representing an alchemical figure associated with one of the astrological houses. The Child of the Sun was constructed for Delandes, third son of the head patriarch of the Clan of Bilateral Hermeneuts, whose trade is and ever was the interpreting of contracts.

The Child of the Sun is lustrous, glinting with hues of burnished brass, red copper, and glistering gold. The helm is a serene face of the sun, around which has been affixed a corona of effulgent rays. The massive limbs trail streaks of metal that spark when struck against stone. Alchemical symbols are loving painted across its now tarnished surface, where many ersatz repairs have left a patchwork appearance.

In one of its hands holds the Searing Star, whose massive ball of polished yellow quartz is spiked with metal flames. It is a terrible weapon made for scattering foes and smashing defenses. It's other arm wields the Solar Lash, a cord of flexible metal that glows with an internal heat, made to ensnare and sear foot soldiers. When the Solar Lash hits a target, the target must test 4d6 under dexterity or become entangled, taking automatic damage for each round after until extricated. When the Child of the Sun is attacked by magic, its projectors produce ethereal shields, that glow like many-hued clouds of cosmic gas as they absorb and nullify the magics.

Child of the Sun
Frequency: Unique
No. Appearing: 1
Armor Class: 0
Move: 12"
Hit Dice: 6+2 (50)
No. Attacks: 3/2
Damage Attacks: Searing Star 5-20 + Solar Lash 2-12
Special Attacks: Entangle
Special Defenses: Spell Absorption
Magic Resistance: Arcane chassis absorbs up to 10 spell levels
Intelligence: The Puppeteer (Normal)
Size: 10' tall

Siege Puppet Pilot
Frequency: Unique
No. Appearing: 1
Armor Class: 6 (padded + dexterity)
Move: 12"
Hit Dice: Assassin 3
No. Attacks: 1
Damage Attacks: Khopesh 1d8 + poison
Special Defenses: None
Magic Resistance: Normal
Intelligence: Very Intelligent
Size: 6' Tall

Zyan Below

At the bottom of the undercity, the offal sinks and great sewer river spill into Zyan Below. Here a fecund and ever blooming white jungle grows like a pallid reflection of the gilded towers above glimpsed in the fetid waters of a still pond. It springs from the base of the floating island downwards, a dense riot of immense fungal blooms, and thick snaking vines covered in flowers that look like the jeweled wings of insects. The place is the surreal nightmare of a jungle. The breast of a bird will open to reveal pale, trembling petals, on which its blind young feed with snaking tongues. The line between insect, animal, and plant is not respected.  Often, it is hard to tell where one living thing stops and another begins.

Zyan Below can be divided into four levels. Each level is represented by a hex map, composed of hexes one half mile wide and high. These maps are stacked one on top of another. While I cannot reveal the maps (alas!) since they are all in play, I can tell you a little bit about the levels, which are these.

The Brambles (Level 1)

A deep loamy soil is caked to the uneven bottom of the rock of Zyan. At the base of the great tree systems, enormous root balls burst from this fertile ground. From this firm anchor spring down the immense trunks that disappear into a black chasm below. In this dark wooded free-falling expanse, storm clouds gather, pouring forth occasional showers of stinking offal rain that feed the jungle below. After the lightless chasm of cyclopean trunks, the trees branch out into interconnected brambly thickets. In these nighted tunnels, the air is hot and dank, reeking of pungent decay. Fungal blooms are everywhere, and strange rotting plants that have the look of offal. Here on may find, among other things, the Cenotaph of the Lady Shirishanu, and the tempting mossy road that leads to the lair of the Empty Witch. 

The Depths (Level 2)

As one travels down from the brambles, a dim grey light dawns and fetid stink is replaced by a fragrance sweet and sharp. Here the white jungle blooms forth with the alabaster fronts of ferns, accented at bursts by jewel-like flowers, and clumps of unnatural fruit, oozing a milky sap. The sounds of life and death are everywhere, the buzz of insects competing with the staccato cries of strange birds, punctuated by the unsettling roar of alien beasts. Here life intertwined in lethal cycles that will devour unwary travelers. This is the living, beating heart of the jungle, in all its lurid glory. Here one may gaze upon the Emerald Pools, a massive waterway of pitcher plants that spill down to glistening ponds below, or brave ruined temples, now the roosts of lamia. It is here too that one may find the abode of the chittering masons, or the eerie valley of the flowers, where lies the wreckage of the Parapraxis, a fine vessel that once sailed the oneiric seas.

The Bright Groves (Level 3)

As one travels further down, the trees become thinner. Here, the air is bright, and a fresh breeze sways the leaves. Birds take wing, flitting amongst the luscious fruit and enchanting flowers. In this airy vertical forest, alien horrors slide up and down with frightening rapidity. The latticework is patchy, and broken, and travel here is difficult. Much of the fauna is floating or gliding, and it is here that the great lens plants can be found that channel the light of the Endless Azure Sea up to the Depths above. It is in these luminous groves that nobles built their pleasure grounds and swaying manses at the zenith of Zyan's power. Here one may find the legendary Summer Palace of the Incandescent Kings. 

The Dangling Isles (Level 4)

In a few places, the forest extends further still, penetrating the Endless Azure sea that surrounds Zyan on all sides. These dangling forest isles are buffeted by fierce winds and fogs of white downy cloud. Here, the strange aquatic life of the surrounding sea penetrates the jungle. Amongst blossoms of coral, flying fish move in the eddies of air, laying their eggs amongst thick swaying reeds. Potent artifacts washed up by the currents lie tangled in the groves here, which are stalked by strange beings born of the boreal winds that blow through the Azure Sea. The demons of the wind have their foothold here, including Bazekop the Prince of the West Wind, whose invisible towers can be approached across a slender crystal bridge. 

Zyan Above

Zyan Above. Sidney Sime

The great city of Zyan soars over the dreamlands on a fixed orbit. It rests on a rock of reddish hue, seven miles east to west, and four miles north to south. From the bottom of the rock springs the White Jungle, an immense riot of fungal blooms, teeming with life tailored to this inverted phantasmagoria. On its topside, the terrain of the rock has many changes of elevation, with sheer cliffs, hills and hollows. Off the western edge, a small separate island keeps time with its larger sibling. It is connected to the main body by a soaring bridge, on which an honor guard always stands in white lacquered armor, secured by chains against the howling wind.

Bridge to the Sunset Palace. Svetoslav Petrov

The Sunset Palace. Sidney Sime

On this island a palace rises, majestic and elegant, with domes piled upon domes, and towers climbing into the sky. This is the Sunset Palace. Its towers are cleverly fashioned to form narrow channels, where clouds, snared by the inexorable gait of Zyan, roll down towards a central dome, pouring like a heavenly river through the great arched windows of the courtier's ballroom. On the palace's western face a glorious stained window reaches six stories high, rich with the iconography of the royal line of Zyan. Through its colored panes, a council chamber can be glimpsed. At the head of a great table, a monstrous orchid springs through the floor, its petals dangling over a jeweled ivory throne. Ever since the malaise came upon Zyan, this orchid has drooped and lost its lustrous sheen. It is as old as the city, and it is said that when it dies, so too will the hope of Zyan.

Chimes. Dulac

Moving eastward, across the bridge from the Sunset Palace, one crosses onto the raised western plateau of the main island. The neighborhood set atop this great cliff is called Chimes. The buildings here were once bright and elegant; now they have a falling down charm. Between woody hills nestle cozy manses with sunken courtyards and jangling chimes. At the center of the plateau, a great hollow descends gently to mossy woods, through which a sparkling stream runs. Its once manicured paths were stocked with splendid peacocks from which the hollow takes its name. Its paths are now wild and overgrown, and the peacocks have, through generations of haphazard rutting, grown surly and garish.

Along the northern edge of Chimes stands the Stable of the Guides, a clean building with soaring columns, and fine martial statues of bronze. Piers extend from darkened holes out over the Endless Azure Sea. There the Guides once housed their mounts, the great kestrels that soared on the screaming winds that cut across Zyan. The art is all but lost; now only two ancient kestrels, the last of their line, keep the blind stable master company.

A Great Kestral Returns to The Stables. Moebius

Further east, down the cliff that sets the western plateau apart, seven sets of narrow steps run into the three neighborhoods below: Volish Hill, Pentacle, and Cusp. Along the stairs that descend into Pentacle is set the Vertical Market, a series of arcades carved directly into the living rock. Under bright silk pavilions, the merchants hawk their wares. Here spices spill from open tins, beneath dainty candies hanging form colored stings; there lie piles of ancient books, cast off casually from a noble clan's library, their faded titles inscribed in languages no longer read. At last, one comes upon the little cages of jeweled serpents, opulent singing birds, and capering yellow monkeys of the White Jungle below.

Observatory of the Horoscops. Phillipe Druillet

Of the neighborhoods at the base of the cliffs, Volish HIll is the most uneven, with steep stairs that climb past buildings, clinging improbably to the hillsides. Numerous antique footbridges connect high points, sometimes passing over one another. Atop the largest hill, a tower rises like a crooked finger. This is the observatory of the Horoscops, the guild of soothsayers and calendar keepers. From its top, a great telescope, extending from the painted dome, is trained on the heavens above. Copper pipes run from the observatory south, passing from building to building until they snake down the sheer cliff of the rock of Zyan. These are the periscopes trained on the heavens below, relaying crucial astrological information about the movements of the astronomical bodies below.

The wall of Cusp. Ian Miller

In Cusp, the most northerly of the three neighborhoods, the city begins to spill down a great incline to the north that eventually becomes too steep for homes. A wall has been set here, running between tightly packed houses that lean together against the harsh boreal winds. In a plaza in this tilted neighborhood, there is an amphitheater with a festival air about it, with several stages, bleachers, and raised platforms, with ringing bells, and instruments for performers. Leading onto one end of the central stage from an adjoining building are a pair of great doors, fifty feet high, painted in gaudy colors. This is the Theatre of Justice, where the Inquisitors Guild metes out its spectacles of punishment, the most gruesome and anticipated of which involve their cruel puppets.

Inquisitors Puppet (15' tall). Sha Sha Higby

Beyond the walls here, where the rocks spill steeply down to the edge of the island, narrow ledges jut, supporting lonely twisted trees that cling in the harsh wind to barren rock. Here one may find among the stones--if one know where to look--an ancient stair leading down to tunnels. On the northern side of the island, the cliff face is riddled with baroque gates with blowing grotesques, facing the Endless Azure Sea. Past the gates the tunnels can be seen, with aquamarine tiles, and strange statuary. These are the Catacombs of the North Wind, built when the Zyanese still nurtered the hope that they might propitiate--and perhaps control--the demon winds that blow across the Endless Azure Sea. Bitter experience taught them the futility and danger of such hopes.

Floating Islands. Roger Dean

Past the shore of the main island here, several small islands float, making a broken and irregular barrier against the biting North Wind. Here fantastical birds nest by icy pools of turquoise water. The last island is long and thin, ending in a jutting spire of rock. From this isle dangle cages that hang from chains, spinning over the depths of the Endless Azure Sea. This is the Farthest Isle, where traitors were made to hang until their flesh, cut and frozen, gave up the semblance of life.

As one moves east, past the strange neighborhood of Pentacle with its obscure shrines and eerie mirrors, the neighborhoods become seedier and more dilapidated. In Gutter, the crowded buildings and narrow streets, with their networks of tautly stretched clotheslines, give way to sudden hollows, where silver grasses grow, and groves of forlorn trees stand. An especially steep hollow cuts through the neighborhood like a gash, with a dark narrow wood winding along its base. Nearby a building rises above the shabby dwellings, with outdoor altars of an evil aspect, dangling censors, and elaborate drains that empty into the massive sewer grates below. This is the Abattoir of the Fleischguild. In porcelain chambers, the carvers here sacrifice a constant stream of beasts and men to propitiate the endless hunger of the unrelenting archons.

Abattoir of The Fleischguild. Alan Lee

Turnabout. 

At the eastern end of the island, one finds Turnabout, most wretched of the neighborhoods of Zyan. Here the dwellings are crumbling and overtaken by nature. The cats of Zyan swarm here most of all, holding their secret councils beneath rotting floorboards, where the rats are plentiful. Among the of half reclaimed buildings of Turnabout sits a large monastery, imposing in its modesty. Within its courtyards massive dinner tables stand at which the abject receive dialy sustenance. Over them presides a statue with a fat belly, its swollen limbs contorted in strange and painful poses. Through other windows one can glimpse rows of hospital beds, and penitents cells filled with instruments of self-torture. This is the Monastery of the Benefactors, who see in the neediness of Turnabout an opportunity to injure themselves through the giving of charity. It is said that the madhouses and leper colonies they maintain beneath the monastery are places to be avoided at all costs.

The Lotus Dens of Turnabout. John Blanche

The denizens of Turnabout cannot afford to maintain the trappings of decency, and so wear masks of paint, often cracked and running. Having lost their fruitless ambition, what coin they can scrounge buys reveries on the rotting cushions of the lotus dens. Strange cults flourish propounding heretical eschatologies and bizarre practices. It is whispered that even dolorous Golumex, the shunned archon, finds his adherents here. The population of Turnabout has already lost all hope. Perhaps this is why the rest of Zyan Above has turned its back on their need. For they see in their painted faces the future of Zyan and are ashamed.

A Heretic Praises Golumex. John Blanche

Finis.

The Dreamlands and I

Sidney Sime

I'm currently running a campaign where the players have discovered a door that leads into the sewers and catacombs of Zyan, a flying city in the dreamlands. My desire to run a game in the dreamlands is longstanding, tracing back all the way to my very first game of D&D. This is the story of the dreamlands and me.

The first roleplaying game I ever played was in 5th grade in 1986. I knew what D&D was, since earlier that year I had traveled to the Compleat Strategist with my mother, who had, bless her heart, looked up that wonderful store in the phone book and taken me there to buy the Mentzer red box. Although it had thoroughly captured my imagination (damn you Bargle!), I hadn't done anything more than draw hexmaps with a friend for an imagined future game.

But that spring, a new kid named Sebastian ran a very strange game for four of us on the playground. He was the child of an itinerant punk scam artist. Although educationally disadvantaged by his sometimes homeless wanderings, he was a wonderful artist, and had an entirely unchained imagination.

The game kicked off this way: each PC was visited in his dreams by a shadowy figure of immense power, the lord of the dreamlands, who offered us each a challenge. We would compete with other champions: whoever defeated him would receive that which he most desired. The rest would be lost to the dream world forever. He ran the game dicelessly and competitively, playing with each of us one on one in serial fashion. I don't remember much except that it was utterly mysterious, with symbolist elements, and was incredibly difficult. The only concrete memory, besides the dark wonder of the whole thing, was of being beaten by one of the other players in solving some puzzle. His PC was, as a reward, granted a wish, which he promptly redeemed for a magical sword with which to fight the lord of dreams in a duel. The rest of us witnessed the battle, fought on a thin bridge high above us. As it turned out, the character had over-reached, challenging the lord of the dreamlands too soon and in too direct a manner. He was slain. The player wept and we tried to console him. It was badass.

Cover by Gervasio Gallardo

I next encountered the dreamlands when, in middle school, I discovered H.P. Lovecraft, the only one of the three great Weird Tales authors (Robert E. Howard and Clark Ashton Smith being the others) that I stumbled across in my youth. I devoured all of his works. Contrary to the elevated opinions of the weird intelligentsia, I liked his dreamlands tales the best, and most of all The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath.

I reread the book just last week, and I can happily report that wonder still drips from every page: from Randolph Carter's longing to return to the fabulous city he glimpsed three times contrary to the will of the gods, to the frightening traders who come to Dylath-leen in black galleons, the rowers of which are never seen, and who trade always in rubies. The abundance of Lovecraft's fertile imagination allows him to be a generous dispenser of bits of marvel, for example, the fact, casually mentioned, that only three "fully human" dreamers had ever crossed the perilous gulfs between the dreamland of the earth and those which surrounds Arcturus or Fomalhaut, or that the tree from which the Zoogs make wine grows from a seed thrown down from the moon.

The idea that there are a few travelers who know the hidden ways to the dreamlands, and lead secret lives as explorers of that perilous and fantastical realm, made quite an impression on my teenage mind. I suppose that I originally felt about Lovecraft's dreamlands something like the way Randolph Carter felt about his thrice-glimpsed city. I would defy the will of the gods if it would get me there.

Lucy Johnson

In adulthood, thanks to +Scott Driver, I discovered Lord Dunsany, whose work served as the inspiration for Lovecraft's dream tales. Most relevant here are the superb stories in A Dreamer's Tales, the best of which is "Idle Days on the Yann". This story follows a veteran traveler of the land of dreams on his trip down the Yann River aboard the strange vessel Bird of the River. The sequel to this story, "The Shop in Go-by Street" was a direct influence on the conceit of my dreamlands campaign. Ask the owner of a certain shop in London for an impossible thing he cannot provide, and he will grudgingly conduct you to a back room full of idols, where a glowing cerulean door stands. This door leads to the cottages whose windows look out both on "the fields we know" and "the fields we do not know".

These Dunsanian motifs of secret doorways hidden in plain sight were of special interest to me, because for a period as an adult I actually did manage to lead a kind of second life in my dreams. Starting in college, I suffered from regular insomnia. By the time I was in grad school, it had settled into a macabre rhythm. There was at least one night a week where I fell asleep only at dawn for exactly an hour. But what an hour! During that brief sojourn beyond the veil, I would dream intense lucid dreams. It always started the same way. I would realize I was falling asleep and try to get out of bed, while my body remained in place. When I had separated myself from my corporeal form, I would walk to my bedroom door.

This simple wooden door, painted a plain white, so unremarkable in itself, was in that hour of dawn a portal to an unknown land. What lay beyond the door was always different. Sometimes it would open into the rest of my apartment, located now in a warren of buildings and hallways, with seemingly unending lines of strange painted doors. Other times, I would simply find a flight of stairs leading down, through mysterious tunnels, into the streets, alleys, and courtyards of some unknown city, dark and empty. Or perhaps it would lead to a narrow hallway with a single window, opening upon a world of interconnected rooftops and walkways. These experiences were remarkable and delicious, and some recompense for my perpetually exhausted waking life.

Winsor McCay

These dreams ended in a dramatic way. The figures I met in these lucid dreams were clearly figments of my imagination, without life or will, soulless mannequins I projected onto the dark worlds I was traversing. But on my last trip through the door, I found myself backstage in a theater after a show. I followed a narrow staircase up to a dressing room. Inside was sitting an beautiful actress in a silk kimono. When her eyes met mine, I could tell there was real intelligence and consciousness behind them. I felt myself, for the first time in these lucid dreams, to be in the presence of someone who was not a mere projection. She told me that she was a changeling, which I understood to mean, in the strange understanding characteristic of dreams, that she had played the role of all those shadowy figures I had met in these lucid dreams. She told me gently, with some sadness in her voice, that she was going away for awhile and wouldn't be seeing me anymore. And I have never had a lucid dream since. That was 10 years ago.

So what am I doing running this game in the dreamlands? Am I trying to get back through that door? To create a grown up version of what that crazy 10 year old genius Sebastian subjected us all to? To reproduce my original experience of wonder when I first read Lovecraft's dream tales?

I answer with this. When the protagonist of "Idle Days on the Yann" converses with the sailors of the Bird of the River, he first tells them of his waking life in Ireland. The life he describes seems to them absurdly quotidian, and they mock him, saying, "There are no such places in the land of dreams." However, the protagonist continues, "When they had ceased to mock me, I explained that my fancy mostly dwelt in the desert of Cuppar-Nombo, about a beautiful city called Golthoth the Damned, which was sentineled all around by wolves and their shadows, and had been utterly desolate for years and years, because of a curse which the gods once spoke in anger and could never since recall. And sometimes my dreams took me as far as Pungar Vees, the red walled city where the fountains are, which trades with the Isles and Thul. When I said this they complimented me on the abode of my fancy, saying that, although they had never seen these cities, such places might well be imagined."

Philippe Druillet

If I find myself on a vessel in the land of dreams, and am mocked by seamen for my life grading papers and constructing meticulous arguments in the too solid City of Chicago, I will be able to defend myself thusly. "My fancy dwells mostly with Zyan, the flying pearl of the land of dreams. Its once gleaming towers rise to the heavens, and its opulent sunken courtyards, and narrow streets shield its residents from the bitter winds that blow across the endless Azure Sea that surrounds it. The Zyanese suffer from a great hopelessness, hiding always behind their gilded masks, for owing to a peculiar curse, their monarch is thwarted by a hidden double, as was his father and his father too. My fancy also dwells sometimes in the lush bowers of the inverted jungle that springs from the bottom of Zyan, an immense riot of fungal blooms, teeming with unseemly life. There hangs the ruins of the great Summer Palace of the Incandescent Kings, forgotten and crumbling." Perhaps then the sailors will compliment me on the abode of my fancy, saying that, although they have never been to Zyan, such a place might well be imagined in the land of dreams.

Dreams and Reality

The Temple of PEGANA includes many peculiar faiths: worship of ever blooming Kib the giver of life, adoration of Mung the destroyer of the same, propitiation of Sish eater of hours, and evocation of Yoharneth-Lohai, god of small fancies. But most peculiar of all is the worship of the creator god MANA-YOOD-SUSHAI. In the Temple of Pegana, his priests maintain the ever burning censor, accompanying its soporific incense with soothing chants, a sacred, never-ending lullaby. For it is MANA-YOOD-SUSHAI's dreams that sustain reality.

Among the devotees of MANA-YOOD-SUSHAI, three metaphysical doctrines contend concerning the relation of the dreams of man to the great dream of the slumbering god.

The severe orthodox position is that the waking world is the original dream of MANA-YOOD-SUSHAI. Human dreams are only a reminder, a dim echo, of the great divine dream that sustains reality. It is thus hubris to attribute any creative potency or metaphysical significance to mortal dreams. In support of this doctrine, its adherents point to the incoherent and fragmentary nature of human dreams, with their sudden and absurd transitions and meaningless incongruities. These inconstant illusions come unbidden into our fancy as we sleep, only to slip through again into forgetfulness like water through a sieve. For this doctrine, the existence of Wishery has always proved a sticking point, for it is generally assumed that the dreamlands in some way grow from dreams of the inhabitants of the waking world. The orthodox have been led to either deny that Wishery exists, or, more subtly, to claim that is it merely another dimension, one of many worlds, all existing equally in the original dream of MANA-YOOD-SUSHAI.

A less common view, formerly considered a heresy, is that all dreams produce reality. On this view the so-called waking world is merely a rung on a metaphysical ladder of dreamworlds that begins at MANA-YOOD-SUSHAI and trails into nothingness at the perhaps infinite lower limit. Adherents of this view agree with the orthodox that human dreams are a pale shadow of the original dream. But they charge the orthodox with hubris for conflating the thin material of the so-called "waking world" of our experience with the unimaginably potent originary dream of the Slumbering God. There are two versions of this strange doctrine, rationalistic ascensionism and mystical descentionism.

The First Dreamers

The ascenionists hold that each level of reality contains conscious beings that dream in turn. The dreams of the slumberers at each level coalesce, flowing down to create the reality of the next level below, including its dreamers. The "waking world" is thus itself the dream of higher beings, as Wishery is the creation of the dreamers of our world. The potency of the dreamers becomes weaker and more diluted as the rungs descends away from the original dream of the Slumbering God. Conversely, as one ascends, the dreamers of each higher waking world are more subtle and potent and the worlds they inhabit more tremendous. The dreamers dreamt in MANA YOOD SUSHAI's original dream are alien beings of unimaginable powers; their fancies the creation and destruction of worlds of unfathomable splendor. The ascensionists liken these first dreamers to the gods of the gods of the "waking world".

The descenionists hold that reality travels in the opposite direction. The dream flow ever downwards, each level more concentrated than the dreams of the previous level, acquiring more hidden and condensed meanings and potent symbols as the levels are descended. The stuff of dreams accumulates until it flows into the great original dream of MANA YOOD SUSHAI, a dream of unspeakable and searing reality that contains the potent distillation of all that has come before. Here it is said that a single grain of sand contains within itself heavens that would shatter the human intellect to behold. This version of the creed is attractive to mystics, great dreamers, and persons of strong fancy, who hold that the waking world is a pale shadow of their dreams, and that their fanciful dalliances are holy expeditions, bringing them one step closer to the Godhead.

There are those among each of these strange creeds with the longing for unknown experiences, who hold that the pilgrimage to the original dream is a sacred and inescapable duty. The ascensionists believe that a way must be found to travel backwards through the successive waking worlds toward the waking world of the first dreamers dreamt by MANA YOOD SUSHAI. The descensionists hold that a way must be found to penetrate ever deeper, forward, through the levels of dreams until one arrives at last at the opal gates of the great dream. As both factions admit, such doctrines are perilous, since man was not meant to experience the higher realities, which must in their potency be inimical to the weaker stuff of which we are made. Yet these would-be pilgrims continue to try, the ascensionists cultivating through meditation ever more vigilant hyperconscious waking states, while the descensionists induce through the use of hashish and lotus powder ever more febrile and lurid hallucinations. Thus far, to no effect.

The orthodox frown on all these efforts equally as idle depravity, and perhaps foul heresy. But the spread of the faith and the increasing popularity among new converts of the heterodox positions has stayed the hand of priests who, in any case, are not given over to much action, bent as they always are, on supporting the soothing reverberations of the great drummer Skarl, lest all reality be destroyed in a moment by the awakening of MANA-YOOD-SUSHAI's terrible consciousness.